Home Fires
by Iellix
Summary: Nottingham, 1939. As Europe sinks into WWII, longtime friends Will Scarlett and Allan a-Dale meet Djaq, a young stablehand. Their lives are soon shaken by an ever-changing world at war--and simply by growing up. AU, Will/Djaq, Will/Djaq/Allan friendship.
1. January, 1939

I really have no idea where this idea came from—I don't even _like_ World War II! Ironically, my gig is the Renaissance and Middle Ages. But I loved the idea of this story and I plan on writing it out as best as I can. Since I'm an American and not terribly familiar with the British side of the war, I'm doing my best to research the story before I write it. If I'm off on anything, don't hesitate to PM me—I know there are plenty of people who know more about this than I do!

Most of this story is going to be about the Allan/Djaq/Will relationship—'cos I love it. There'll be a smidgen of Robin/Marian as well. Since it's WWII, I figured that Sherriff and Gisbourne characters aren't really needed—there's enough evil in the world already, isn't there? I had to change the character's ages a bit for the story, and they are as follows: at the start of this chapter, Djaq is fourteen, Will is fifteen, and Allan is sixteen.

Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC's Robin Hood. Darn.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**January, 1939**

Allan a-Dale stood on the doorstep in the sleet of the late afternoon, impatiently banging on the front door to his friend's house. He'd been hoping that Will would be about—he was bored silly of late. He hadn't had much time off at the restaurant, either. Much was running him ragged, as one of the only full-time waiters he had on staff, and his shift at lunch had just ended, so he was hoping to see his old friend.

In the last year, since he left school, he hadn't seen so much of Will Scarlett. The two boys had become unlikely friends, despite their resoundingly different personalities. Allan was a little bit silly, talkative and friendly, and concentrated much of his efforts on having fun whenever he could; Will, on the other hand, was often described as "a little too old for his age", apprenticed to his father, a cabinetmaker, and sometimes almost painfully shy.

Perhaps it was their differences that made them such good friends, balancing one another.

"Will! Come on! School's been out for over an hour, and I _know_ you're in there—don't pretend you haven't heard me and go hide under the bed!" He yelled at the closed door. "You know I could very damn well open this door myself from out here!"

After he still received no answer, he huddled himself into his coat. The January sleet was miserable, tiny little icy bullets stinging his face and hands, getting in his hair. He was better off back at home, he decided, where he rented a room with John and Alice Little.

As he turned about to walk back down the garden path, he nearly collided with a little black-haired boy in a school uniform coming the other way. He stopped himself short and slid on the icy ground, landing on his backside in a puddle.

"Oh, bloody fucking _brilliant,_ that!" He growled, lurching to his feet. His coat and trousers were soaked.

"You shouldn't swear like that, Allan," the boy said. "I could pick up some really bad habits from you."

"Your brother told you to say that to me, didn't he?" Allan growled.

Instead of answering, Luke just grinned broadly.

"So where is my old friend?"

"You mean Will? He had some errands to run for Dad after school. Should be back soon, though."

"Oh," was all he said, feeling very stupid for standing there and yelling at an empty house. "Well, what about you, kid? You're home awfully late for a school day."

"I'm not in trouble if that's what you mean," he said defensively. Just like his brother. "I stopped at Robin's stables after school to have a look."

"They're just stables."

"I know, but he's hired a brown boy to work there. I wanted to see him."

"'A brown boy'?" He repeated.

"Yeah. He's not from around here. Didn't say anything to me, though."

"Huh. Well, that's about the most interesting thing that's happened around here since that two-headed calf."

"What is?" Came a voice from the end of the path. "And why are you all wet?"

There was Will, still in his school clothes and looking much like a bigger copy of his little brother, carrying a paper bag in front of him.

"I was just telling Allan about a new boy Robin hired," Luke explained. "That's why I'm late."

"All right, then, thanks for telling me," he said. "Dad said he'd be back before dinner tonight. Here, take these inside and put 'em away." He handed off the bag to his little brother.

"Why me?"

"Because you're the baby."

Luke grumbled on his way into the house, but didn't argue. This left Allan and Will alone out front.

"So why _are_ you all wet?"

"I fell in a puddle trying not to step on your baby brother."

Will snorted. "I'd feel sorry for you, but that's funny."

"Oh, thanks, my dear friend."

"So—what's going on?"

"I need an excuse to come see my old mate, do I?" He asked with a silly grin, slinging an arm around his friend's neck and dragging him around in a circle.

He lurched around gracelessly, scraping at his friend's arm in an attempt to get him to let go. "Gaak! Allan, get off of me!"

He obeyed, flinging Will to the other side of the path where the teenager nearly fell over.

"C'mon—let's go have a look at this new kid Robin's hired."

"Why?"

"'Cos it's something to do."

Will sighed. "Are you _that_ bored? Why don't we go to the cinema or something?"

"We can do that after—_please?"_

Another sigh; he was acting like this boy was a new exhibit at a zoo. "All right, _fine._ We'll go. Just try not to be an idiot, all right?"

"Me, an idiot? How do you mean?" He demanded, following his friend down the path and out onto the road.

He narrowed his eyes at him. "You tend to talk before you think about it, you know. Sometimes it's like your mouth operates faster than your brain."

Incensed, Allan gave him a shove; the pair argued most of the way along the roads towards Robin's place on the other end of town. The route was a familiar one, taking shortcuts between and behind buildings, and cutting across properties.

Nottingham was a place that occasionally looked like it was stuck in a time warp. Some of the roads were still cobbled for horses and carriages that didn't run anymore; alleys were sometimes so narrow that there was hardly enough room for the two boys to walk abreast. Buses, trucks, and the occasional car lumbered along in clouds of gray-white steam, adding to the heavy gray overhang of clouds and the varying shades of gray in the buildings and the ground.

A lot of gray.

It was days like this when Will _longed_ for spring.

He and Allan made their way to the big house at the bottom of a hill; in the dim evening light, they could see that the curtains in the old stablemaster's house were open. Luke was right—clearly _somebody_ was living there.

Robin Locksley was an anomaly; a young man from an old and very wealthy family, he refused to live as others of his station did. He seemed to live with the strong conviction that he ought to use his good fortune in birth to help others. He was heavily involved in a number of charities, and it wasn't uncommon for him to offer work to people who needed it—even when he could just as easily do the work himself. For example, tending his horses, animals he dearly loved.

Together, the boys wandered down the hill and headed for the stables—Robin never really minded when they came onto his property, just so long as they didn't mess the place up—where they could see a small figure hurrying back and forth carrying a rake. They leaned on the metal gate for a closer look at this new lad.

The young dark-skinned boy was wearing old overalls, cuffed a few times to keep them from dragging on the ground, Wellington boots, and a too-small coat covered over in sewn-on patches. His black hair was cropped unevenly, away from a round—almost feminine—face; his eyes were large and dark. He looked like he couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen. He was bustling about the stables with his rake and hardly took any notice of them aside from a quick glance.

"Hey, mate!" Allan called, reaching out to try and grab the boy by the coat as he passed. The boy looked up briefly with a puzzled expression on his face, then shrugged and went back to work.

"Maybe he doesn't speak English," Will suggested.

"But don't they learn English in school in India?"

"Maybe he's not Indian."

"Lad, you speak English?" He called out. Will buried his face in his hands, embarrassed for his friend.

"Shut up, will you?" he hissed. "You're just making a prat of yourself and he doesn't understand a thing you're saying!"

His advice was swiftly ignored.

"Come… here…" he said slowly, now gesturing wildly. "We want… to talk… to you…"

Will was desperately fighting his urge to punch his friend in the face for being a moron. "All right, we've seen him but it's obvious he doesn't understand us, so why don't we just go—"

"No, I think I'm getting through!"

There was an angry yell and some incoherent growling in a language neither of them understood before the boy reappeared from the stall he was clearing with an angry and frustrated look on his face and a hay fork slung over his shoulder like a weapon.

"That is the trouble with you English speakers!" He shouted. His voice was lilting and heavily accented. "You all think that anybody will understand your language provided you just… speak it… slowly enough." His slow speech and tone mocked the way Allan spoke to him.

"So you _do_ speak English—"

"Yes, I do! But I was ignoring you. But apparently you are not clever enough to realize I wanted nothing to do with you. Now if you will kindly let me be, I have work to do."

"Hey, come on—there's no need to be so short with me. I was just trying to be friendly," Allan protested.

"_You_ call it friendly—_I_ call it irritating."

Instead of defending his friend, Will just stood back and watched the situation unfold; he put a hand over his mouth in an effort to keep himself from laughing too loudly, but the quaking of his shoulders gave him away.

"Your skinny friend here thinks you are funny, as well."

"Will, shut up!" He turned back to the young boy who was calmly making him look like an idiot. "You—why are you being such a pain in the bum?"

"I suppose this is what you English call 'from the horse's mouth'," he quipped, sticking his hay fork into the ground and leaning on it.

Will was past the point of keeping himself under control and folded his arms over the metal gate, laughing helplessly at the exchange.

"Some friend he is," Allan snorted. "Look, lad, I didn't come here to be insulted. I just came to say hello—"

"Well, you have said your piece and made yourself look a fool. Now if you do not mind, I have things to do which will be made all the more easy by your leaving."

Allan stood with his mouth open, looking back and forth between the boy and Will, who was still laughing and offering absolutely no support. With that, he stalked off, but he slipped in the mud on the way back up the hill and landed on his hip. He swore colourfully and stood up, having decided that he was going home to change clothes and dry off.

Will watched him leave and the boy went back into his stall.

"Hey," he climbed the fence into the stable and followed him. "I'm really sorry about him. He doesn't mean it, but he's a bit of an idiot. He can't help but say stupid things."

To his surprise, the little dark-skinned boy looked back over his shoulder and smiled slightly. "I know. Some people are just silly."

He was taken aback by the sudden realization that he was… _cute._ He was _really_ cute. Almost like a girl…

No! He mentally slapped himself.

"So, um—I'm Will. Will Scarlett." He put out a hand. The boy looked at it a moment before hesitantly taking it and shook it; the small hand was icy-cold without gloves.

"My name's Djaq. Just… Djaq."

"Well, 'just' Djaq," he said, grinning despite himself. "Welcome to Nottingham. I hope you like the rain—we get an awful lot of it around here."

He sighed, shaking his head. "I know—but that is just England. I have lived here for some time, but I can count on one hand the number of days it has not been raining or cloudy."

"Funny, I've lived here my entire life and _I_ can count on one hand the days it hasn't been raining or cloudy," he countered.

Djaq laughed a little at the joke.

"It is good to see some Englishmen have a sense of humour," he said. "Some of the ones I have met have acted like smiling is physically painful."

"Some," he conceded. "But not Robin."

The side of his mouth curled up in a half-smile that made him look briefly, fleetingly, like a girl.

"No, not Robin."

"He's a good man—you're fortunate to be working for him."

After a long pause, he nodded slowly, as if he understood this far better than Will realized.

"So… whereabouts are you from, anyway? If you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all. I come from Palestine."

His eyebrows raised, and light green eyes widened. "That's quite a ways."

"That it is." He shivered slightly as a gust of wind blew by, and tucked his hands under his too-small coat.

"You know, I'm sure Robin would get a coat and some gloves for you if you asked him—he takes good care of the people who work for him. It's better than being miserable—"

"Thank you, but no," he interrupted. "I do not wish to take charity. Just because I am a…" he trailed off and cleared his throat, as if he was about to use the wrong word. "Just because I am young and small, doesn't mean I need protecting. But thank you. I shall manage."

Will combed a hand through his hair. "Well—it was nice meeting you. I ought to get home, though. I forgot to tell my brother I was going out and I don't want him to worry about me. And I'm sorry again, about Allan. He's really not so bad once you get to know him."

"I imagine not. Maybe we will meet again, Will Scarlett."

And with that, Djaq went back to work and Will left for home through the sleet.

o…o

He leaned against the open closet doors and sighed. He knew he had a coat in there someplace—they never got rid of _anything_ in the Scarlett house if it could be reused. Anything their father didn't wear anymore, Will started wearing; and whatever Will outgrew, Luke would grow into eventually. So he was pretty sure there was an old coat or two he could take and give to Djaq.

The poor boy didn't have anything suitably heavy for the English winters—that old coat that was too small for him hardly kept him warm and looked as if it was ready to fall apart any day now.

He'd surprised himself with the sudden friendship. Normally, he was quiet and didn't take well to new people. Shy. But somehow he found the Palestinian easy to talk to; certainly he could hold up his end of a conversation better than most people his age. He was good company for the times when he was tired of Allan. Even if they were just in the same general area doing different things—Will was usually idly whittling and Djaq was working—he felt oddly at ease and comfortable around him. He just couldn't explain it.

When the boy _wasn't_ working in the stables, Allan usually tried to coax him into their usual haunts around Nottingham. Even though he seemed distant at first, it soon became clear to Will that he quite liked the company.

"It is nice," he'd explained one afternoon on a walk down through the square. "You and Allan are so unlike other people. You didn't hate me right away for being… dark. Or not a Christian."

He couldn't imagine what that must have been like. Being in another country, so obviously different from everybody else and shunned for things that he couldn't help, being forced to support himself as a grownup at such a tender age, and all without family. It was never directly talked about, but Will was pretty sure that his friend had no parents—there could be no other explanation for his current situation.

"The contents of the closet aren't going to change if you stare at it hard enough."

The voice behind him startled him so badly that he nearly jumped right through the ceiling. A heavy hand settled on his shoulder.

"Easy, son."

"Sorry, Dad," he apologized. "I was thinking."

"I figured." He looked into the closet around his son, taking note of his height. Already, the lad was up to his shoulder; in time he'd be taller, he had no doubt. "Are you looking for anything in particular?"

"One of my old coats. I've got a friend who could use it."

"Your new stable-boy friend?"

Will nodded.

"You think of him like another little brother, don't you?"

He wasn't quite sure how to answer that—certainly he'd grown quite fond of Djaq over the course of the last weeks as their friendship blossomed. But he didn't know if he felt _brotherly_ towards him. He just felt an inexplicable desire to protect him. Yet another thing the fifteen-year-old couldn't exactly explain.

To answer his father's question, he just shrugged. "I don't like that he's all alone," he said. "I s'pose I just want to help him."

Dan Scarlett sighed and clapped the boy on the shoulder. "You're turning into Robin, aren't you?"

"Seems like it sometimes, doesn't it?"

"Well, I hope you can find what you're looking for. I've got to go to the church hall and have a look at some cabinets they need repaired. I'll probably be out all afternoon, so when you get the time, I need to you give the shop next door a quick tidy."

"'Right, Dad."

"I'll see you later, boy."

He vaguely registered the front door slam as he stared into his half of the closet. He and nine-year-old Lukey still shared a bedroom, a fact that became more and more irritating as he got older. But their house—a cottage, really—was small and had only three little bedrooms, one of which served as a drafting office for Dan. Maybe if he begged hard enough, he could persuade his father to let him use the tiny office for a bedroom; he just wanted his own _space._

A quick search of the other half of the closet came up with two old coats that his brother had yet to grow into. He picked one at random—a heavy coat of oily green wool.

Now the only thing he had to worry about was getting his young friend to _take_ the offering from him.

He was proud for a lad so young—he refused to take charity, even though he must have been acutely aware that he needed something to keep him warm. Coming from a warm climate like Palestine, he wasn't used to the cold, icy, gray winters here. But neither could he afford the coat himself; after paying his rent, gas, and water bills and feeding himself, there was not a great deal of money left.

Will found it heartbreaking that a boy so young had to worry about such adult matters; when _he_ was Djaq's age—he thought the boy maybe twelve or thirteen—the worst things he worried about were embarrassing voice changes and acne.

He bundled the coat up in his arms and trotted down the stairs to the front door. He left a quick note for his brother before heading out. It was a deceptively sunny day, blue sky and fluffy white clouds breaking two weeks of almost non-stop rain and sleet; it almost looked like a lovely spring day, until one stepped outside into the cold air and was reminded, quite suddenly, that it was February.

At least the walk was pleasant in the sunlight.

When he arrived at the stables, Will was surprised to find that Djaq was nowhere to be found. He was usually busily at work in the stables, trotting about in those Wellington boots and overalls. Or he was quietly doting on his favourite horses, talking soothingly to them in Arabic, which was a beautiful language even if he _couldn't_ understand a thing he said.

He went around to the little house on the other side of the stables where he lived, hoping he might be in there. The curtains were closed and the door was locked, so he gave a few quick raps and waited for an answer.

After a silence, there were a few bumps and scuffles from the inside, and the door wrenched open. Djaq was looked a little cross, as if he'd interrupted something. He was holding the door open a few inches with one hand and fastening the shoulder straps on his overalls with the other.

"Oh, Will—it is only you."

"Were you expecting somebody?" He asked.

"No, I was… it was just… never mind. Did you need something?"

He thought to ask what was going on, but he thought the better of it. If Djaq wanted him to know, he'd tell him. He became acutely aware of how much smaller his friend was as he looked up at him with those observant, shining black eyes.

And then he became aware that he was _staring._

"Something wrong?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest.

For a brief moment, he himself forgot what, exactly he'd come for. It was only when he shifted the coat in his arms that he remembered the purpose of his errand.

"Oh—I found this coat in the closet. I outgrew it but it doesn't fit my little brother so I was wondering if—"

"I do not like charity, Will," he interrupted. "You know that. I appreciate the thought, but I cannot take it."

"You're going to freeze in that old thing you wear."

"It is suitable, and winter will not last forever."

"You could catch your death in pneumonia out here," he protested.

"I will be fine."

This was astoundingly frustrating.

"Now, if you had something I could do in exchange…" Djaq began absently, as if dropping a hint.

"Huh?"

"If I did something for you and the coat was my payment, then it would not be charity. I do not like taking something for nothing—but as long as I can pay you back…"

"Are you serious?"

He nodded his dark head.

"Well, I can't think—" and then he cut himself off. An idea struck him. "Actually… my Dad wants his workshop tidied up today, and it's a big job. D'you think, maybe you could give me a hand with it?"

A smile crept into his face and his dark eyes lit. He nodded slowly. "I think I can manage that."

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

I'm afraid I've never been to Nottingham before in my _life,_ so I had to base 1940s Nottinghamshire off of the only part of England I know: North Yorkshire, a place that has not changed appreciably since approximately the Norman Conquest.

An update will be coming in a week—about half of this story is already written, and I'll be posting chapters once a week on Fridays, so people can read it over the weekend. I know a lot of people don't have internet access during the week.

Feedback and reviews are much appreciated, but not demanded. Chapters will come out one way or the other.


	2. September, 1939

Whoa—I'm pleasantly surprised with the response this story is getting. I didn't expect that! Thank you so much to everybody who's been reading so far! My reviewers are greatly appreciated, but just the fact that there are people reading this story fills me with a serious case of the Warm Fuzzies. And _because_ I like you all so much, I'm posting this (very short) chapter a whole five days early. This is a one-time thing, though!

I ought to mention something that I overlooked in the last chapter: neither Will nor Allan know yet that Djaq is a girl. Until they do, only the chapters told from her point of view will refer to her as a girl. I hope that's not too confusing! I always love gender-confusion, the whole panic of "Wait a second, he's a guy—why do I think he's cute?" I was sort of disappointed they didn't pursue that in the show. So I figured I'd do it here.

Disclaimer: I don't own the BBC Robin Hood characters or Neville Chamberlain's speech. Or WWII.

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o…o

**September, 1939**

"_I am speaking to you from the Cabinet Room at 10 Downing Street. This morning, the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that unless we heard from them by eleven o'clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from Poland, a state of war would exist between us. I have to tell you that no such undertaking has been received and that consequently this nation is at war with Germany…"_

The announcement came over the radio, the voice of Chamberlain was slow and tired—not a tone of voice one is comforted in hearing from a Prime Minister. The group was huddled around the radio in Marian's living room, leaving their dirty footprints on her floors and listening intently.

That morning, the first news they'd heard was that the German troops, at Hitler's command, marched into Poland. It was a terrifying situation. Since then, all of Nottingham—all of Europe—was sitting on pins and needles, waiting for news from the east. Ultimatums were issued, warnings ordering the Germans to pull out of Poland or the consequences would be war.

Only it didn't happen.

_War._

It all seemed so surreal.

"What's gonna happen to us?" Luke asked in a tiny voice barely above a whisper.

"I don't know, Lukey," Will answered honestly. He could hardly believe it himself. Throughout the day as he went about his business—too frightened to take advantage of the last day of summer holidays—he kept jumping into shops and the houses of friends, hoping to hear a news report from Eastern Europe. Almost everybody was doing the same thing. Even Djaq stopped working for long enough periods to listen for a broadcast.

"I can't believe it," Allan breathed. He was still wearing his work clothes and apron, having come by Marian's house during a long break from work when he noticed a handful of people herding in through her front door.

"I do not think anybody can," Djaq murmured. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, between where Will and Allan crouched, also dressed for work but had swapped his boots for a pair of well-loved red Converse trainers.

"It's terrifying," he said flatly, at odds with his normal joking personality. It seemed that the situation had even sobered Allan a-Dale.

A chill ran though Will at the thought. War. All of Europe would be at war with Germany, no doubt. The fact that England was separated from the continent by miles of ocean somehow failed to soothe. His heart pounded in his stomach, and blood rushed in his ears.

A warm weight at his back and was reminded that his brother was behind him—he had to keep his fear in check for his benefit. The last thing the boy needed was to see his much-admired big brother sinking into terror and panic.

There were announcements spilling out of the radio, but nobody seemed to take much notice of it—they were all still stuck on the last sentence. _'This nation is at war with Germany.'_

"How can people do that to each other?" The rhetorical question came from Allan, who was entirely uncomfortable with silences.

"Invade each other's countries?" Djaq asked.

"Yeah."

"It is hardly something new, Allan. People have been doing it almost non-stop for thousands of years. A lust for power—it is not going to stop."

"That doesn't make me feel a lot better, you know," he growled.

"It was not meant to."

Silence again. Marian hadn't said a word, only stared with angrily narrowed eyes at the radio in her living room, as if it was the machine's fault that the invasion had happened in the first place. Will could hardly blame her; that announcement took their quiet little lives in their quiet town and shattered them like a china teacup. Suddenly, Nottinghamshire was a part of the world, a world that was slowly sinking into chaos.

Robin, too, looked angry—but then again, Robin got angry whenever he heard about _anything_ unjust, and certainly he must have been concocting a plan in his head to single-handedly swoop in and save Eastern Europe. A plan that Marian would probably later talk him out of, telling him it was too dangerous or that he couldn't possibly do it alone.

And the future seemed so vague, so foggy.

Frightening.

Allan cleared his throat again, still uncomfortable with the heavy silence in the room. "Well, then—looks like there's only one thing we can do."

"Panic?" Will asked with a touch of sarcasm.

"No—join the army."

His bottom jaw almost hit the floor; his eyes popped wide open. Djaq raised his eyebrows. Luke stared at him with an expression of total confusion. Even Marian and Robin were looking at him funny.

"What?"

"_You_ want to join the army?" Marian asked.

"Well… yeah."

"That seems a bit of an undertaking for you," Robin remarked.

"How do you mean?"

But Robin didn't answer him.

"Do you realize that you could be killed?" Djaq said slowly.

"Yeah, but—it's the right thing to do. They're gonna need every able-bodied young lad they can get."

"You're too young," the man said. "You're not eighteen until next summer. And you can't lie about your age."

Pause.

"Well, I'll enlist next year, then."

There was a long silence as everybody took in Allan's declaration.

Will took a deep, shaky breath before saying quietly, "I'll go, as well."

Back to his normal self, the blue-eyed youth threw an arm over his shoulders, nearly knocking both Luke and Djaq to the ground.

"Excellent! The two of us mates, fighting for King and Country and freedom—if I wait a bit, we can ship out together!"

Despite the fact that Allan seemed a little too enthusiastic about this whole thing, at least he was back to being himself.

"What about you?" Allan asked, looking at their dark-eyed friend. Both Robin and Marian looked down at the boy with a bemused expression on their faces that Will didn't quite understand.

The young boy shrugged. "I do not know. It is still a long time until I will be old enough—and I hope the war does not last that long."

After a few moments of quiet, he suggested that they all leave and let Marian alone, and thanked her for letting them intrude on her living room to listen to the radio. Allan agreed, saying he was just on a break from the restaurant and had to head back before lunch. The four of them left the house in a state of quiet gloom.

Will sent Luke home, keeping his head high and careful not to let the fear creep into his voice, then trotted to catch up with Djaq as he went back to Robin's stables. He acknowledged him with a nod and a glance.

They walked together in an easy, comfortable silence—something he was completely unable to do with Allan—all the way to the house at the bottom of the hill. They were quietly absorbed in their own thoughts as Djaq went about his business in the stable; Will occasionally held open gates or doors, or handed him a tool that was just beyond his reach.

Being allowed to let his thoughts wander sent them right back to his friend. He found himself often utterly confused about him. He'd never really had many friends before besides Allan, so the younger boy was something unusual. For the most part, he just thought of Djaq the same as he thought of anybody else, albeit closer to him—except sometimes, usually when he was least expecting it, these inexplicable and entirely unwanted thoughts popped into his head. He'd long since given up denying the fact that his young friend was heartbreakingly cute; his round face and small stature made him look a bit effeminate. But sometimes, when he laughed or smiled or stared off into space caught in his own thoughts, he forgot that his friend was, in fact, a boy. He knew perfectly well that he shouldn't be having these thoughts about another boy—certainly it had never even crossed the fringes of his awareness until now. But he just… couldn't… help it.

He hadn't left this situation completely untested. He knew he felt nothing for any other boys—not Allan, or Robin, or any of the neighbourhood lads or film stars or _anything._ He just couldn't understand why he should find himself to drawn to Djaq. It was almost like his hormones were fooled into thinking _he_ was a _she._

Once or twice, worryingly, he'd dreamed that his friend _was_ a girl. It was humiliatingly realistic and for a split second after he awoke from the dream, he savoured it until he remembered the subject of this unwanted fantasy was his mate.

The worst part of the whole thing was that there was absolutely nobody—_nobody—_he could talk to about it. Nobody that he could trust not to send him to the vicar for "spiritual counselling", or ridicule him, or call him revolting. It all confused and worried him so much.

After a long while, the younger boy spoke.

"Do you think he really meant it?"

It took a few seconds for his brain to switch gears.

"Who?"

"Allan. Do you think he meant what he said, about joining the army when he was old enough?"

He shrugged. "I honestly have no idea. It's so unlike him—seems a bit at odds with everything I know about him."

"I know what you mean. He always seems such a little boy—it is hard to believe he is seventeen. It seems like you are the older one, sometimes."

"I wouldn't expect him to do something so… well…" he scratched his head, hoping he could come up with the right word. "Something so _selfless. _But that's not quite the right word."

He shrugged and leaned back against a wooden support beam, his arms crossed over his chest. "I cannot think of the right one, either, but I understand what you mean."

"Good—saves me having to explain."

He fell quiet again, those dark eyes unreadable in the shadows in the stable. He felt like Djaq was staring right through him.

"What about you?"

"Hum?"

"Did you mean it, as well? That you would join the army?" The question was quiet, his voice uncertain; he turned his gaze to the floor and kept it there.

Will wasn't sure what he should answer.

"I—I don't know," he stuttered after thinking about it.

He didn't look up. "Then why did you say it?" For some reason, he sounded sad—or else worried.

"I don't know that, either." He fidgeted. "My—my Dad told me about things that happened during the Great War, years ago. I don't know if I could go _into_ a war zone. Then who would help my Dad? And what about Luke? And then there's Allan, and you…" he trailed off.

"What do _you_ want?" It wasn't voiced as a demand, just a gentle prod with a soft voice and captivating eye contact.

"I'm not sure I want to."

"Then do not do it."

"Being of age, able-bodied, and _not_ in uniform is a disgrace."

"So? I do not think that I will join, either, and I do not expect I will take kindly to anybody who thinks me a disgrace because of it."

"Well…" he began, except he couldn't come up with anything to say.

"If you do not wish to do something, then you should not do it. Nobody will think less of you for your choice. Not if they care about you. Anybody who would say you are weak or less than a man simply because you chose something else is himself less than a man."

Will's eyebrows slowly climbed his forehead as his friend spoke, carefully taking in what was said.

"What?" He asked.

"You know, for somebody so young, you certainly have some good advice."

His mouth twitched. "I simply pay attention to the world. You can learn a lot by just watching."

There was no other response he could think of except to smile, although he did so half-heartedly. The war was still there in his mind, distracting him. He imagined this was something he was going to have to get used to.

The only thing he could know—that _anybody_ could know—for certain was that their lives were about to change.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

So now, World War II is _officially_ in motion. In my strive for authenticity, I looked up the speech by the Prime Minister announcing the start of the war; the italicized paragraph at the beginning is, in fact, the speech read by Neville Chamberlain on 3 September, 1939. Oh, and before anybody has the chance to jump down my throat—_yes,_ Converse trainers (sneakers) were in existence in 1939. They existed in their current design, under the name "Converse Chuck Taylor All-Stars" in the early 1920s. So it's entirely possible that 1930s!Djaq could own a pair.

Plus, you can't deny that Djaq in overalls and red Converse would be really. Freaking. Cute.

See you next week—reviews are appreciated, but not demanded.


	3. March, 1940

Ah, the first Djaq-centred chapter! Just to remind those of you out in Reader Land, _until Will and Allan discover her identity, Djaq will be referred to as a "he."_ The exception to this is a chapter told from her point of view, like this one.

I'm seriously thinking of changing the story title—for no other reason than because I keep misreading it as "Home _Fries."_ Really. It's making me fucking crazy!!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Robin Hood characters in this story. They belong to those lucky BBC bastards.

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o…o

**March, 1940**

The crackling fire was comforting after being outside in—what else?—a fine, steady, gray rain. It shouldn't really have bothered her, and it probably wouldn't have were it not so cold. But of course it _was_ cold outside; everything was _wet_ and _cold_ and _slippery,_ and she was walking deep in mud that sometimes rose up over the tops of her wellies and got her socks and feet _cold_ and _wet._

She hated it.

Robin had her bring Marian a note that he was either too shy or too busy to deliver himself. After spending all day in the rain, and looking forward to snuggling down in her room with a stack of newspaper crossword puzzles and some dry clothes, the errand was entirely unwelcome—but she could hardly say no to her employer, so, grumbling quietly the entire way in her native tongue, she went.

She hugged the heavy warm blanket closer around herself and stared at the fire screen, over which were draped her overalls and socks, all wet from the walk.

Djaq had pretty well accepted that she wasn't going to become accustomed to the weather in England, even if she lived here the rest of her life. She had no idea how they all got used to so much rain and cold, but she imagined it had to do more with their natures than anything else. They were puddleducks to her desert hawk.

"I'm sorry Robin made you come all this way in the rain," called Marian from the kitchen over the sound of clattering cups and saucers. "If you like, I can have a word with him."

"That is not necessary, but thank you," she said back. "I imagine he does not realize that what he thinks of as a slight chill in the air, to me feels like a freeze."

"I could tell him _that,_ too."

"No, please. It is all right."

"If you say so."

She leaned her head back against the sofa behind her. It felt good to sit, warm and cozy and out of the rain. It also felt good to let her guard down—just a little bit—without having to worry about revealing her secret. Marian was one of only two people that knew that 'Djaq' was a girl. It had been Robin's idea to tell her in the first place—it would be good for her to have another woman to talk to, he said, because there would be some things for which he would be no help at all. The normally confident man went bashfully red, no doubt imagining scenarios in which she _would_ need Marian's help.

Despite her initial reservations about it, she'd grown to like Marian over the last year. She was almost like a big sister figure, something novel for Djaq, who came from a family that consisted of herself, her father, her brother, and her uncle. She had really relatively little contact with other girls and women; perhaps this was why she was so good at playing that part of a boy. It simply came naturally.

It felt good sometimes to talk with her, just for the sake of talk. There was only so much she could talk to Will and Allan about without revealing her true sex to them, so at times Marian and Robin were the only people she felt close to. Of course, as a nurse Marian wasn't always readily available, and Robin was often out doing some sort of charity work or other and wasn't always easy to track down.

The radio provided soft background noise—it was on all the time these days—and the warm, crackling fire and the soft cushion behind her head all caused her eyelids to go heavy and she dozed quietly.

The sound of a teakettle screaming in the other room brought her back to reality with a jolt, and the clatter of more china from the kitchen around the corner reminded her where she was.

"Would you like milk and sugar?"

"Are you sure you can spare it?" She asked, rubbing her eyes. "I do not want to use up your rations."

Food had been rationed since January—sugar and butter and meat were all scarce, as were fruits and vegetables. She didn't even know where Marian was getting the tea she was serving, since they didn't have a lot of _that,_ either.

"Don't worry," came the voice from the kitchen. "I have plenty of sugar left and three pints a week is more than enough for me." Djaq opened her mouth to respond, but, as if reading her thoughts, Marian called back, "And don't ask me if I'm sure! They're _my_ rations, and I can do whatever I like with them!"

She laughed quietly to herself. It was no small wonder that she and Robin weren't already married for all that they were so much alike. But then again, she knew little of the nature of their relationship; she imagined it was complicated. She also knew that, being so much alike, they fought all the time.

The older woman came into the room holding a tea set balanced expertly on a tray.

"I could come to the kitchen, you know."

"You could—but you're already comfortable here. No sense in uprooting you. And anyway, it's warmer in here." She settled the tray down on the low table and started laying out cups and a little plate of biscuits.

"I should probably get back to Robin's soon," she noted even as she reached for a biscuit. "He might wonder where I have gone with your reply to his note."

The woman sighed. "I doubt that—and there's really nothing I can say to it, anyway. And if he gives you a difficult time, just say we were having girl talk, and then watch his ears turn red."

She laughed quietly. "You do enjoy picking on him when he is not about to defend himself."

"That's the best time to pick on him, I've found." She poured the tea and offered the little bowls containing the sugar and milk. Then she frowned slightly. "Don't you want to take that bandage off?"

"Bandage?" For a second, she wasn't sure what she was talking about.

"Um… this." She patted her hand a few times against her own chest, and Djaq immediately understood.

"Oh—_that_ bandage." To hide her most obvious female trait, she bound her chest tightly in thick bandages. At first it was astoundingly uncomfortable, but as she grew used to wearing it, she hardly ever noticed the binds anymore. It wasn't as if she had much to hide, she thought grimly. "No, I will leave it on. If I forget to put it back on before I leave, somebody will be bound to notice."

"Why do you do it?"

"Bind my chest?"

She gave her a look. "I mean _all_ of it—the pretending. Why do it?"

Djaq shifted in her seat. "At… at first I did it because it was safer."

"Safer? How so?"

She sighed. "It is almost always safer to be a boy than to be a girl. After Djaq—" she swallowed hard, took a deep breath, "—after he died… I did not want to be a girl all alone. So I became him, so that I would not be a little girl all by myself."

"And that's safer?"

"People treat boys differently than they treat girls. A boy is not at risk for the same things—people will toss a boy about, kick him, beat him, but they will not… violate him." She spat the words out as if they left a bitter taste in her mouth.

This was the first Marian had heard of it; she furrowed her brows and opened her mouth to ask the obvious question.

"It did not happen to me," the girl reassured. "But if it did, I would not be the first—nor would I be the last."

"But that was a different place—you're not in the same environment anymore. You're safe here."

"Am I?" She asked absently. "Even if I do not face the same dangers, what do you think they would say if I told them I lied to all of them? For more than a year?"

"I like to think they'd understand."

A shrug. "Perhaps."

They sipped tea in quiet, listening to the popping wood in the fire, the slow and gentle _tip tip tip_ of rain on the windows, and the programme on the radio. It was one of those new dramatic programmes, which Djaq never really took a shine to. They were all silly, and mostly the same, she thought as she half listened to the music swelling in the background and one character announcing to the other that she couldn't take any of this anymore, and she was leaving.

At least it was better than war news, or that stupid "Germany Calling" programme.

Perhaps silliness was a panacea against the real world.

She heard Marian's voice through her own thoughts, but didn't know what she'd said.

"Pardon?" She asked.

"I said—it sounds to me like you don't _want_ to stop being a boy."

"Maybe I do not. Given everything, I quite like how I am treated as a lad. Nobody tells me that I am silly, or weak, or that I cannot do something. I am—well, I am my own man, so to speak."

"How old are you now, Djaq?"

That question came seemingly out of nowhere.

"Fifteen," she answered hesitantly.

"You're young."

When she began to protest, Marian held up a hand requesting her to stop.

"You still have a long, long life ahead of you. D'you think you can keep this up forever?"

"I—"

"What happens when you get older? Or if you get tired of this? What happens if you want something that you _can't_ have as a man?"

She stiffened. What was she getting at? She had an idea, but she played obliviousness.

"Such as?" She prodded.

"What if you fall in love? I doubt you'll fall in love with another woman, and you can't love a man _as_ a man."

Djaq went quiet. She hadn't really given much thought to that; she thought that avenue closed off to her in her role as a boy. At the time, she didn't think much of it, but what if it _did_ happen? Could she trust herself to keep those feelings bottled up inside?

Taking on her brother's identity had been a defense mechanism at first—a way to keep herself safe from a world that would gladly take advantage of a lost orphan girl. But Marian was right, and she wasn't in that world anymore; she no longer needed the shield that her dead brother provided. So why did she find it so hard to consider the possibility of revealing her identity to her friends?

Because she didn't want them to treat her differently, she thought.

Having known Allan and Will for a long time, she could be pretty well assured of the fact that they would change their behaviour towards her if she revealed herself to them. Allan, certainly, treated girls differently. Right now, she was "just a mate", but she was fairly sure of what would happen if he ever found her secret. He would probably stop treating her like a mate, and start acting a ninny around her, the way he acted around all girls—showing off and flirting constantly.

Will she was less sure about—she had no idea what his reaction would be, should he find out, but it couldn't have been anything good. He was so painfully shy that she worried he might just stop talking to her all together.

"You should keep these things in mind," Marian told her.

Her only response was to nod and stare at her empty teacup.

"I should probably leave," she said after a while, walking towards the fire screen to retrieve her now dry clothes. "Thank you for the tea, Miss Knighton."

"Marian," she corrected.

"Thank you for the tea, Marian," she said again, pulling on the comfortably warm overalls and woolly socks.

"I didn't mean to upset you, Djaq," she murmured as she held the girl's shoulder so she didn't have to hop around on one foot. "But you _should_ think about what I said."

"I know," she sighed. "I will tell them—someday. Not right now, but just trust that I will tell them."

"Good. Now go on back to the silly boy you work for—you'd better hurry, the rain'll start up again soon."

She smiled to herself as she cuffed her overalls and pulled her boots on. She grabbed her coat on the way out and headed along the familiar route back to Robin's.

Along the way, a handful of familiar people waved to her and said hello, and their actions warmed her. She hadn't really expected to be as well-accepted here as she was, being so obviously foreign, with dark skin and heavily accented speech. Perhaps it was because she worked for Robin that the locals had accepted her as one of their own; they all seemed to think so highly of him that anybody _he_ approved of, _they_ approved of.

Whatever the reason, she was glad of it.

She carefully picked her way down the muddy hill to the stables, steadying herself and sliding the last few feet until she reached level ground.

The sound of chickens clucking from inside the stables made her smile—so Robin had taken her up on her offer, after all.

With food being so tightly rationed, Djaq had suggested a few days previous that they obtain some ducks or chickens for the eggs; as it stood, everybody only had one egg a week, and that was hardly enough. She'd already made an improvised chicken coop in one of the empty stalls by nailing down chicken wire and putting out a few boxes for the birds to roost in. The birds must have come while she was on her errand.

She trotted into the barn and had a look at her little coop. Inside of it were seven or eight little mottled hens and a rooster, clucking around in the straw and cut up newspapers that served as bedding.

Heavy footsteps on the wooden floor behind her made her turn around. It was Robin, huddled up in his raincoat.

"Do you think those are enough?" He asked, coming to stand next to her.

"Yes, thank you," she said quietly.

"And young Will Scarlett will be around today to put up a fence."

"For my garden?" She asked.

He nodded.

More and more people were planting vegetable gardens to supplement their food rations, and it was her idea to do the same. Part of an unused paddock was now a garden, with lettuce and carrots and peas and tomatoes. It was her responsibility to take care of it, but Robin had agreed to raise her pay and she could help herself to the crops. All they needed was a fence to keep the rabbits out.

"This was a good idea of yours, Djaq," he remarked, clapping the girl on the shoulder. "And whatever we don't use, I can give away."

Trust Robin to think that way.

"What did Marian say?" He asked, sounding suddenly quiet.

"Say?"

"About the note. Did she send anything back, or…"

She shook her head. "No. She just let me dry my things in front of her fire, and she gave me some tea."

He smiled and shook his head. "That's my Marian."

She didn't quite know what to make of that statement, so she ignored it. "If there is nothing else you need me to do…"

"Not unless you want to wait about for Will."

Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean by that?"

"Oh, nothing," he said with that signature broad, cocky grin on his face. If it had been anybody but Robin, she'd've punched him. "I just thought you might like to see your friend."

"Uh-huh," she said over her shoulder as she walked away, but she offered no further comment. Instead, she slogged through the mud to the little flat on the side of the barn.

She wasn't sure what to make of Robin's comment, or Marian's. They were implying something—probably just because they knew she was a girl. She was just _friends_ with those boys. She couldn't be anything else.

She didn't even know if she _wanted_ to be.

o…o

_Finally,_ the clouds broke and March stopped looking like the dead of winter and started looking a little bit like springtime. It was Saturday, which meant she had some time off. Allan was working until late afternoon, so Djaq had wandered out to the Scarlett home in order to see if Will was about. He wasn't, but a frustrated Luke had answered the door. Apparently the boy had piles of maths homework that he was supposed to finish before he was allowed to do anything else, and he was having trouble with it. Feeling sorry for him, she offered her help—she'd always been good with numbers.

"Djaq, you're _good_ at this," the young boy remarked after she'd helped him plough through most of the work. "Why didn't Will ever tell me you could've helped me?"

She shrugged. "I am not sure he even knows I like mathematics—it is not a subject that often comes up."

"Oh. Well, I don't s'pose it would," he said, chewing on the back of his pencil. "Will hates figures. He's terrible with 'em."

"He certainly is. In the time it takes him to do the sums to pay for something, sometimes the shop has closed and everybody has gone home for the night."

Luke laughed around the pencil in his mouth. "I like you, Djaq. You're clever."

For some reason, that simple declaration made her feel warm inside.

While the boy went back to work, Djaq picked up a school text from the floor nearby—a biology book—and began thumbing through it. This was a great deal better than any book she'd had when _she_ was in school, though she hadn't been a student in some years. Despite not having been in school in ages, she was a voracious reader. She would read absolutely anything, including the old newspapers that Robin gave her to shred for bedding for the animals; she always read those before tearing them up, and she tore out the crossword puzzles for later. Just because she was no longer in school didn't mean that she had to give up learning, she'd decided years ago.

She was caught up in a lovely, detailed diagram of the development of horses through the eons—starting with something that looked like a pig shagged a deer—and didn't hear the front door slam open and Will call for his brother.

"Is he reading my biology book?"

"Huh?" She looked up and saw her friend standing before her, dressed for rough work and wearing a fine coating of sawdust on his clothes and in his hair.

"You're _reading_ my text," he repeated with a bemused expression on his face.

"Is that a problem—do you need it back?" She closed the book and handed it up to him, but he shook his head.

"No, I just think it's a little weird."

"Maybe he just likes the subject," his little brother suggested. "Will, did you know that Djaq knows _everything_ about maths?"

He raised his eyebrows and looked back down at her.

"He helped me with my homework! Which is brilliant because _you're_ no help at _all_ with it."

"Are you trying to give my little brother reason to disrespect me?" He asked with mock-seriousness.

"Oh, no, anything but that!" She gasped, mirroring his fake surprise. "He will know you are not perfect, and then where will you be?"

"Anyway—it's just algebra I'm bad with. Geometry is easier."

"You can measure _shapes,_ big brother?" Luke gasped with a hand against his cheek like an actor in a dramatic play. "Goodness gracious, how will I _ever_ measure up?"

Djaq covered her mouth with her hand and bit her lips.

"You and Allan are a _really bad influence_ on my brother, you know that?"

Before she could say anything in response, a man with greying hair, also full of sawdust, came around the corner. "Will, I thought I told you to go upstairs and take off those dirty clothes—" he began, but then he stopped and looked down at where she sat across from Luke in a pile of papers on the floor. "Oh, hello—do I know you?"

"Dad, this is Djaq Bseiso," Will said quickly. "He works for Robin."

"Ah, yes, my son talks of you often," he said with a broad smile on his face. "I'm glad we've finally met. You can call me Dan." He offered a hand.

Belatedly, she realized she should probably stand and scrambled to her feet, still clutching the biology book in her left hand. She took the work-worn, calloused hand and shook it.

"I am just Djaq," she said, trying to lower her voice so she sounded less conspicuously female. "It is good to meet you."

"Are you reading a textbook?" Dan asked, looking just as amused by this as Will had.

"He reads everything, Dad," he said.

"Good lad," he slapped her roughly on the back, nearly causing her to fall forward. "A well-read man is a respected man."

She coughed. "Thank you, sir."

"Lukey, you're nearly done with your work," he remarked as he looked down at the greatly diminished pile of papers surrounding his younger son. "I told you it would go quickly."

"Only 'cos Djaq helped me. Can he come and help me _every_ time I don't understand it? He's better at it than either of you are!"

Will snorted.

"I don't know; it's up to Djaq," Dan said, turning to her. "You don't have to if you don't want to—I'm sure you've other things to do—"

"No, I do not mind. I would be happy to."

"I can pay you—"

"That will not be necessary, but thank you."

"No, really, I insist."

"It is not necessary—"

"Djaq, just let him do it," Will said. "He's more stubborn than you are."

She sighed. "All right, but I won't take more than a shilling."

The older man's eyes were narrowed slightly as he looked at her, and for a moment she thought he might refuse. But then, with a sigh, he relented.

"All right, then, it's a deal. I'm going back into the shop next door for a little while. It was nice meeting you, Djaq. And you, lad—you go and put some clean clothes on so you're not getting sawdust all over my carpets!"

"Right, Dad," he said to his father. Then turned to Djaq and said in a teasing tone, "I'll be right back—just read the school books while I'm gone."

Instead of sticking her tongue out at him like she wanted to, she just shook her head and went back to the book. So she'd gotten an unofficial second job—certainly she could use the income. Robin had had to sell a few of his horses because it was getting expensive to feed and care for them now that the war was in motion. She still had plenty of work to do, though, what with tending the new garden and caring for the chickens, but that wasn't nearly enough. At least this way she'd get a few shillings a month for doing something that hardly required a great deal of effort on her part.

And she'd have an excuse to see Will more often.

She blinked, staring blankly at the page before her. Where had _that_ thought come from? It just popped up out of nowhere, but it was automatic, along with the surge of excitement through her stomach. How strange—she'd never thought that way before. What did it mean? Surely not—

No, she decided. Not that. It was just Will.

Perhaps she was just getting lonely, being by herself most of the time. Her self-imposed introvertedness, vital for the protection of her identity, had never much bothered her before; then again, she hadn't really had friends like this before. Maybe she was just getting used to having people about, and when they _weren't_ about she felt a bit lonely.

That must have been it.

And with that, she went back to her reading.

A few moments later, there came a desperate pounding at the front door, and a familiar muffled voice shouting from the outside. She raised her eyebrows and looked over at Luke, who hadn't even stirred at this.

"It sounds like there is somebody crazy at your door," she pointed out.

He shrugged. "Prob'ly just Allan. He always knocks like that."

"Does he?"

"Yeah. Impatient, he is."

"_You'd better let me in, Will Scarlett!" _The voice roared, loud even through the wooden door.

From upstairs, they could hear a great deal of thumping and bumping, and both Djaq and Luke looked up and followed the sound over their heads and around to the top of the stairs in the front all.

"Just come in, Allan!" They heard Will call. "The door's open!"

The door slammed open and she heard the unmistakable sound of Allan stumbling into the hall. "Thanks, mate, I've got to—pull your trousers up!"

She snorted into the book at the exchange between two very good friends.

"I was getting changed!"

"All right, whatever—look, can I use your radio? I heard something on the way back from work and I wanna know if it's true…"

Her heartbeat quickened when she realized that Allan's tone was serious—a circumstance that usually meant that something very, _very_ bad had happened.

Will came thudding down the stairs, and the two young men came into the room at the same time, racing to reach the radio.

"What've you heard?" He demanded as he tucked in his shirt.

"Something _bad." _He fiddled with the radio dials, looking for the right station. He looked over in her direction and frowned. "Are you reading a textbook?"

She slammed the book closed. "Why does everybody think this is so strange?" She demanded.

Allan didn't answer, and kept searching for a station.

"This must be really bad news," Will said quietly, standing next to her so that only she could hear it.

She nodded grimly as she watched.

"I found it!" He said, waving for them to come listen and turning the volume higher.

"_German Luftwaffe launched several air raid attacks on the naval bases of Scapa Flow this afternoon. The final casualty report has not yet been issued, but early reports suggest that at least seventy people were injured or killed, many of them civilians. This is the second German attack on the area since October, when over eight hundred crew members of the HMS Royal Oak were killed when U-Boats…"_

Four terrified young people looked back and forth at one another. Luke's big blue eyes brimmed with tears and he snuffled slightly; he edged closer to Will and hugged him tightly around the muddle.

"It's all right, Lukey—it's all right," he whispered softly, putting his arm around his little brother. His tone failed to soothe anybody, least of all Luke.

"Oh my god," Allan said. "Oh my god. Oh my god…"

It was the only thing he could think to say; Djaq couldn't think of anything at all. She just sat there staring at the radio, much like she had in September when the news of the war was announced. Suddenly it all seemed so _real._ They felt relatively safe from the U-Boats, being inland and hardly a target for torpedoes. But this was different; the Germans were flying planes over England, dropping bombs. The Channel wasn't comfort anymore, nor was their inland position. Civilians were targets now. They were fair game.

Everybody was.

They huddled in close together, taking comfort in one another's presence. Someone had reached over and turned the radio off, leaving them in an eerie silence.

Allan sat with his head down and hid his face, but the trembling in his clasped hands gave away his fear. Will stared stonily ahead, keeping one arm protectively around his brother. His face was unreadable. They were all so unashamedly afraid. Were she living as a girl, Djaq thought, they might feel that they had to bottle up their fears, put on a brave front for her. Here there was no pressure.

Here they could be themselves, not obligated to behave one way or another because they were boys and she was a girl.

This, she decided, was not worth surrendering. She would stay a boy, for just a while longer.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Whoa. That was longer than I thought it would be! I really wanted to do a Djaq-chapter. I wasn't sure about the Marian/Djaq interactions at first, but now that I've written it out I really like it—a big sister type for Djaq, who has to keep secrets. Ironic, since the last person who learns about it in the _show_ is Marian. I didn't mean to end this chapter on such a negative note, but it sort of happened that way, and it cements her belief that she has to maintain her façade.

Don't panic, they find out about her identity soon enough.

Feedback and reviews are all greatly loved, but not required.


	4. May, 1940

AAHH! I am _so_ glad to be back in fanfiction land. This place has been _crazy_ all week. I'm totally about to put a date on myself here, but in the last week, my little brother (!) graduated from high school (!!) and got his first tattoo (!!). The house was full of out-of-town relatives, and my mom was sending me all over the county on errands and—by the time the graduation party rolled around, I was pretty much going, "SOMEBODY GET ME A PIÑA COLADA AND DON'T SKIMP ME ON THE RUM!"

Thanks ever so much to everybody who's been reading and reviewing. I get a fuzzy feeling every time I see the review alerts in my inbox and the story's "hits" total goes up.

Disclaimer: I _still_ don't own the BBC's Robin Hood. Or any of the characters. But I can dream, right?

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o…o

**May, 1940**

The one good thing about the climate in England was the mild summers. The summers in her native Palestine were brutally hot and humid, temperatures climbing into the upper thirties for days at a stretch without any relief in sight. Compared with that, the hottest days of summer in Nottingham were comfortably cool.

Unfortunately, her friends were sissies. On this warm late spring day, everybody was whinging about the "hot weather" when it was only in the low twenties. She laughed and shook her head at their complaints, telling them that until it was hot enough outside to cook an egg on the pavement, it wasn't all _that bad._

She came by the field behind the school to watch a pickup football game involving, at a rough estimate, eighty or ninety boys of varying ages all tearing up and down the field after a very well-worn leathery football. It was all very chaotic. She couldn't tell who was on what team—she couldn't even tell _how many_ teams there were.

But they all looked like they were having fun.

Some of the boys—Luke included—had asked Djaq if she wanted to play with them, but she politely refused, using the excuse that she wasn't athletic and preferred to watch this train wreck unfold instead of being _in_ it. Really, she wouldn't have minded playing, but they played full tackle and she didn't want to take the risk of landing under an enormous pile of adolescent boys, any of whom could feel something they weren't supposed to.

So she watched instead.

From the sidelines she could see Will dashing around the field in his school uniform, with his blazer cast aside, his tie off, his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, and his sleeves rolled up past the elbow. He was admirably agile out there, running back and forth and swiftly dodging tackles. His hair was plastered down with sweat and he was smiling widely and there was a streak of dirt across his cheek, a combination that made her swoon girlishly until she slapped some sense into herself.

She knew she shouldn't be staring at him—or _thinking_ of him—like this, but she couldn't help it; more and more lately she was having that impulse. She might have thought she fancied him, but she outright refused to entertain such thoughts.

A handful of girls were watching the game—if it could be called that—along with her, whispering and squealing the way they do. This was one thing she would certainly _never_ miss about being a girl: _other girls._ All of that screeching and screaming and gossiping was something she never fancied and found herself better off without. She preferred Allan, Will, and Luke—whom she privately referred to as "my lads"—to any of them.

Allan was somewhere out here, as well, though she had no idea where he'd wandered off to. Probably flirting ceaselessly with the female spectators, paying them empty compliments and acting in a manner that would best be described as "idiotic." The sound of flattered giggling from behind her alerted her to her friend's location.

The young man bid farewell to the girls and made his way over to her. He walked up quietly behind her and greeted her by hooking his arm around her neck, dragging her backwards, and grinding his knuckles into her scalp.

"_Aack! _Stop it, that _hurts! _Allan!" She flailed her arms and then pushed hard against his looped arm until her head popped free. She righted herself and kicked him from behind, heaving a dusty footprint on his backside.

"Hey!"

"Serves you right!"

"Oh, don't be such a _wimp,"_ he grumbled. "It was all in good fun."

She ignored that comment and massaged her head with her fingers, wincing. "If by 'fun' you mean 'physical discomfort', then absolutely!"

"So, here it is, a lovely warm day—or is it still too cold for you, seeing as you come from a place where people can cook food outdoors at this time of year?"

"I was only giving you something to think about, since you seem to think that _this_ is hot."

"Meanwhile, you're in your woolly pants and big coat by the first weekend in September."

"Hmph."

"Don't sulk. You look like a girl when you sulk."

Panic briefly seized her. "I _what?"_

"It was a joke."

"Oh."

"So how come you're not flirting with the ladies, then, Djaq?" He gave her a nudge.

She sighed. She hated dodging this question, but sometimes her friend's entire universe revolved around girls and he didn't understand how others didn't feel the same way. "I do not think they like small, skinny boys like me. They prefer the lads that play football, don't they?"

He snorted. "I don't play football."

"You are not shy."

"You and Will—I dunno what to make of you!"

"Maybe we just do not feel the need to flirt with anything female on two legs."

He laughed at her joke—he always laughed at every joke, even when it was silly or at his expense. He even laughed at his _own_ jokes. That was part of why she liked him so much, though; whenever the world got too serious, as it so often did these days, Allan could always do something to cheer everybody up. Sometimes, when he, or Will, or her—or sometimes all of them—were having a difficult week, he'd make a fool of himself on purpose or herd them into the cinema to see a film to make them laugh. Forget. She was very grateful to him for that.

"Hey, d'you know what time it is?" He asked.

"Nearly four, I think. Why?"

"I'm due at work—Much wants me to open for dinner tonight. Wanna come along? I'll give you some hot chocolate," he lured.

She shrugged. Getting away from here would probably be a good way to stop thinking about Will. "I suppose. It looks to me like this little game has come to a standstill. I think they have lost the ball."

He looked towards the field at a growing pile of boys in the middle, in what began as a tackle and turned into an enormous dog pile. Somewhere in that pile was the ball, and Will.

"How do they breathe in there?" She asked.

"Mostly you just lie there under all that weight, and hope they get up before your ribs all snap."

"Of course."

"So, you comin'?" He asked, slinging a knapsack over his shoulder.

She nodded and trotted alongside him, leaving the rapidly evolving riot behind them.

Unlike when she walked with Will, Allan chatted mindlessly. He was much less comfortable with silence than she or Will were, which she sometimes found irritating—but it could also be refreshing. He made her laugh, which she quite liked, though she had to mind that she didn't giggle like a girl.

The relationship she had with Allan was different than the one she had with her quiet apprentice cabinetmaker. For one thing, she didn't get an excited burst of flurries in her stomach at the prospect of seeing Allan, and because of this she didn't feel as though she had to have herself so consciously on guard around him. Perhaps it was for this reason that she felt a little freer around him—because there were no worries. With Will, she was always afraid that she'd slip up and sigh girlishly or swoon or be caught staring at him. Allan was good for idle talk and laughs; Will was better for quiet company or actual conversation.

She was equally fond of both of them, but for completely different reasons. They balanced one anther out. Silliness and seriousness; quiet contemplation and mindless chatter; boyhood and adulthood. Sometimes she doubted if she'd be able to be friends with one of them without the other—she might've gotten bored very quickly if that were the case.

The restaurant—simply called "Much's Place"—was empty and locked, waiting for somebody to come in and set up for dinner. He pulled out a key and opened the door, letting her walk in first before coming in himself.

He plunked the knapsack down behind the counter.

"I'll get you that hot chocolate in a bit, I just have to pull all the chairs down."

"I can help," she offered.

"Just sit," he commanded. "I'll be done soon enough."

"I do not want—"

"Enough of that, all right?" He growled, taking the chairs down from the tables quickly, with the ease of practice. "I'm not being funny, but d'you ever think people do things for you 'cos they like you?"

She fell silent. She hated taking _something_ for _nothing._ It always made her feel suspicious in the past, and those old habits were hard to kill.

"Really, just sit."

Defiantly, she took the stools down and lined them up in front of the counter before sitting in one herself.

"Satisfied?" He asked.

"Yes."

He shook his head at her actions and disappeared into the kitchen. The sound of clattering pots and pans soon followed as he readied the kitchen.

"It seems like Much depends a great deal on you," she remarked.

"He really does—sometimes I wonder what he did before I started workin' here. He isn't really the kind to be organized, or to take the stress."

"In his defense, you do not seem it, either, but you do it very well."

"John tells me Much isn't the type—said he's always been a bit funny. I remember the place barely holding on when I first came here."

"When you first—" she frowned. "You were not born here?"

"Nope. I'm from Rochdale. Robin brought me here when I was ten."

She was surprised to hear this—in the year and a half that they had been friends, she hadn't often heard him talk about his past. It seemed they had something in common.

"He did?"

"Yeah. It was, uh…" he paused, coming to lean on the opening between the kitchen and dining area. "It was right after my brother died."

Her jaw nearly dropped. "I never knew about this."

"Well, I don't—I don't really talk about it," he said, scratching the back of his neck nervously.

"Was he younger than you?"

He shook his head. "Older. Five years. He took care of me, after our mum died. Used to pick pockets so he'd have money for us to eat. After he died, I s'pose I didn't know how to do anything else, so I started doing the same thing. That's how Robin found me—I tried to nick his wallet."

"And he took you in?" She asked in disbelief. That was a stretch, even for Robin Locksley.

"I think he realized what I really was—a scared, lonely little kid. He said he knew of a couple who could give me a place to stay, help me get back into school. I only planned to stay for a little while and then run off, but it obviously didn't work that way."

Amazed by this, Djaq sat back on her stool, leaning on her elbows on the counter behind her. It seemed so out of character for Allan to be talking so seriously, so solemnly and openly about something so close to him. He must have trusted her a great deal—a fact that made the familiar feeling of guilt creep up in her stomach. Here her friend was opening up to her about something painful in his past, and she continued to lie to him, to everybody, about her own identity.

Tentatively, she asked. "What about… your father?"

"I dunno. He's in prison, probably, but I have no idea. Never really knew him." He left the kitchen and came back around to the counter, where he sat on the stool next to her.

"What was his name, your brother?"

"Tom." The name left his lips quietly, as if it was painful. "He was a good lad. A bit like you, actually. He always wanted to do things himself, or pay somebody back if they ever did anything for him."

"I am sorry," she said, fighting the girlish urge to take his hand. "For all it is worth, I know how it feels to lose a brother."

"Oh?"

"I had a brother, myself. A twin."

Now it was Allan's turn to look surprised.

"He died three years ago, just after our uncle sent us from Palestine to London. He wanted us to have a better life, but… it does not work that way in London. We were dark-skinned, we had accents—and they all treated us as if we were less than human because of it."

"You were about as old as I was," he remarked. "A strange thing to have in common, isn't it? We each lost a brother."

"And Robin helped both of us afterwards."

He nodded slowly. "A very strange thing to have in common."

"_Very."_

Her friend forced a smile and looked over at her. "To be honest, I sort of think of you… well, kinda like I wanna protect you. Not in a weird way, mind. I dunno, I just like you."

There was that guilt again. Now, more than ever, she felt the pain that came with lying to her closest friends. In that moment, she very nearly told him; the words were sitting on her tongue, waiting to come out of her mouth.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep her secret.

He nudged her arm with his, jerking his head towards the kitchen. "C'mon, you can help me now. I'll put you to work wrapping silverware or something."

His emotional gears shifted smoothly, and in a matter of minutes they were teasing one another again, joking and being silly. He busied her setting out cutlery and glasses on the tables. It kept her hands busy, and Allan kept her amused.

She found she rather liked Silly Allan much more—seriousness didn't fit on him. Like a shoe on the wrong foot. Still, she felt oddly close to him, in a way that she simply couldn't feel with Will. They'd both lost a brother, the only family they really had left; Robin helped both of them, offering them a way out of their situations, and they'd made new homes in Nottingham.

It was comforting, in an odd way.

Once they were finished, he came out of the kitchen with a mug of cocoa and sat with her back at the counter.

"What's next for you, d'you think?" He asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't expect you'll stay on with Robin forever, will you? I mean, every time I look 'round there, there's fewer horses, and more farm animals."

This was true—it was increasingly difficult for Robin to keep the horses, some of which had already been sold. In their place, they were keeping a garden and farm animals to supplement the meagre rations they were allowed weekly. He'd recently talked about getting a goat for the milk, for which Djaq would be responsible.

"I do worry I might be out of work soon," she confessed. "What good is a stable-boy if the stables are empty?"

"Robin wouldn't let that happen."

"But it is hard for him, and I know it. The money I pay for my room hardly covers what he pays me to work, and he could just as easily do the work himself. And then, eventually there will not be any work left. Then what? I will have to leave. I cannot stay where I am of no use."

"Have you thought about looking for another job?"

"I have, yes. But I am not certain that I could make enough money to keep living here. The people like me well enough, yes, but not enough to let me a room. And I cannot afford a flat on my own."

Allan sighed heavily. "Always the pessimist, aren't you?"

"It is a learned behaviour," she replied tartly.

"Look, I'll talk to Much—see if I can get you in part-time here. At least that way, you'll have a bit of extra money stashed away, right?"

"Are you—"

"Don't ask me if I'm sure! Honestly, Djaq, it's like you're suspicious of _everything_ nice. I wanna help you—that so wrong?"

A smile settled on her lips. "Will I be stuck listening to you talking all the time?"

"Probably—occupational hazard, you know. So what d'you say?"

"Thank you, Allan. You are very kind."

He smiled back at her, that broad roguish grin that might have melted the heart of any other girl, but not hers.

The comfortable quiet was broken when Much walked in, arguing feverishly with two of his other employees. With an apologetic smile, her friend stood and collected her empty mug before going back to work.

Allan was a man true to his word; in two weeks, she was settled into her new routine at the restaurant, waiting tables a few evenings a week. She acclimated quickly, to her own surprise, and everybody was patient with her as she learned the ropes. The work was much easier when they passed banter back and forth to pass the time. The extra income was certainly welcome, as well, between working for Robin, the restaurant, and the occasional afternoon with Luke Scarlett and his maths work.

For the first in a long time, she felt comfortable and secure. She was her own man again—and it was a good feeling.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I figured I needed an Allan and Djaq chapter. I know that in the series, Tom was younger than Allan, but for my story I made him older—I hope nobody minds! I couldn't work out a way to make him younger and still have the story be plausible.

You might be noticing a few inconsistencies with regards to how old Djaq is. It's very simple: she's fifteen in this chapter, but Will and Allan continue to think she's younger than she is because they still believe she's a boy. And _yes,_ they are eventually going to find out that Djaq is a girl—I'm just not telling you when, because that would spoil the surprise.

For the record, the "upper thirties" in centigrade is equal to about 100 degrees Fahrenheit. The "low twenties" is about 70-something degrees.

Reviews and feedback are, as always, much appreciated—but not demanded.


	5. July, 1940

I feel like being generous this weekend and posting two chapters instead of just one. With everybody going through exams and finals and whatnot, reading fanfiction is probably a good stress-reliever. Or just vacating reality for a little while.

It's also an apology, because I'm _so_ sorry it's taking such a long time to get to the point where Djaq's identity is revealed! It _is_ coming, I promise. And for most of the story, they know she's a girl—it's just for the first few chapters that the masquerade is occurring.

Disclaimer: I do not claim any profit from my use of the BBC's Robin Hood, or from WWII. Any donations will have to be made covertly, in unmarked notes in plain envelopes.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**July, 1940**

Will had officially given up trying to deny it—it was hopeless to try, and he knew it. But it had also taken him a long time to accept it, as well. He kept trying to attribute those feelings to something else. That maybe his friend was so small and cute that his only impulse was to protect him; or maybe it was that he was just very close to him.

But it was none of these.

He eventually resigned himself to what his heart already knew: he was _hopelessly_ infatuated with Djaq.

And it terrified him.

He didn't know what to do, or where to turn. He certainly couldn't tell anybody about it. At best, anybody he told simply wouldn't understand; at worst, they would call him a deviant pervert and possibly try to exorcise him.

It wasn't as if he took this problem lightly himself, seeing as he'd spent close to a year in absolute denial. Part of the trouble was that his feelings seemed entirely centred on Djaq; he didn't feel this way about _any_ other boys or men, and he'd definitely tested himself. He still fancied girls, too—at least if his reaction to June Duprez was anything to go by. He simply didn't know what to make of it.

Except that he was absolutely enamoured with his friend.

But the acceptance of this particular sentiment did little to help him. He still had the same trouble, which was that _he fancied his mate._

Thinking on it made his head hurt. So he tried his best not to.

He moved sluggishly though the thick, hot air of the summer, feeling lethargic and dead on his feet. He was astoundingly uncomfortable, the combination of sawdust and sweat made him itch all over and _desperately_ want to wash. Spending his summers apprenticed to his father wasn't all bad, but he hated working outside in the heat for long hours. It usually helped when it was the pair of them working, but this job had been a commission specifically for his skills, for his carving.

At least the work itself was enjoyable, if not completely uncomfortable. He enjoyed carving, and that was exactly what his client wanted—a richly embellished pair of little tables for her husband.

Sweat dripped down his face, carrying bits of sawdust into his eyes and making him snort painfully as he threw off his gloves and vigorously rubbed his face. Time to stop, he decided, putting his things down. He stood and dusted his trousers and shirt off, which did very little to clean the sawdust from him, and went about putting his tools away.

Even the short distance from the shop to the house seemed impossibly far in the summer heat. He stripped off his dirty clothes on his way up the stairs to the bathroom, not caring if his father or Luke saw him in his underwear. All he wanted was to be _clean_ and _cool._

He lingered in the shower a great deal longer than he should have, quietly absorbed in his thoughts. Those thoughts were mostly centred on Djaq, for which he _needed_ the cold shower. Images flashed through his head of his friend's girlish smile, of the way he'd stand idly on his heels with his hands in the pockets of his overalls, the way he stared into space when he thought—the way he absently tugged on his hair when he was nervous, the way his eyes lit up when he laughed, usually at Allan's jokes. He'd gotten inexplicably jealous when he began working alongside Allan at Much's Place, and seeing the two of them grow so much closer. It was then, he supposed, that he realized he fancied him and the realization hit him like a bus.

He _still_ had times when he'd think of Djaq—briefly, fleetingly—as a girl. It was just such an easy thing to do. At times like that, he was even more confused. His subconscious kept turning the object of his affection into a girl.

Probably because even his subconscious knew that he shouldn't be feeling this way.

And more and more often, he was having those dreams in which his friend was a girl. He didn't know quite how to interpret those dreams—perhaps it just meant that he longed for his friend to _be_ a girl so that his feelings would be socially acceptable. But that theory just led him right back to the trouble of being attracted to Djaq, but nobody else.

He started getting a headache, so he pushed the thoughts of the dark-haired boy from his mind. This was getting decidedly ridiculous.

He'd just put on some clean clothes and fallen into bed for a nap when there came a knock at the bedroom door. Will threw one arm over his eyes and whimpered, and hoped that maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

No such luck.

"Don't go to sleep now, boy," Dan scolded from the doorway. "I'll not have you napping away the entire summer. You have a quick errand."

"Can it wait an hour?" He begged.

"No. It's small, you'll be finished in a few hours and you can come back here and nap to your heart's content."

He groaned and sat up. "Dad, can this _please_ wait until later?"

The look his father gave him could put holes through his skull.

He quickly tossed himself out of bed. "I'm up!"

"I thought so."

"What do I have to do?"

"Alice Little needs a new garden fence. She has all the materials, she just needs somebody to come 'round and put it together."

"_Lukey_ could've done that, Dad."

"He could have, yes. But I asked you. You forget, you are my _apprentice,_ William, and not just my son."

He knew better than to argue with his father, so, begrudgingly, he trudged back out to the workshop for his tools. He consoled himself with the knowledge that, at the very least, the Little's back garden was heavily shaded, and he wouldn't have to spend hours cutting up pieces for the fence.

Alice Little met him at the end of the front path—she was a lovely woman, a good-natured secondary school teacher and kind nearly to a fault. She'd even allowed an orphaned pickpocket called Allan a-Dale to live in her house, an arrangement that was supposed to only last a few months but still continued seven years later. At least now, Allan was paying rent for his room.

"Good afternoon, Will," she said cheerfully. "Thank you for coming around—I'm sorry this was such short notice."

"No trouble, Mrs Little," he said, even though he didn't entirely mean it.

"John's here if you need an extra set of hands," she offered as she walked him into the back garden, where slats of wood were piled next to a modest vegetable garden. It seemed everybody was doing it, these days.

"John's about?"

"Oh, not big John. Little John," she clarified. "My husband's out at the moment."

He'd never been quite sure what to make of Big John Little, as he was called since his son was born. He didn't talk much, and when he did his words were always reversed in funny ways—one of his most common phrases was, "This, I do not like." He was absolutely enormous, but paradoxically gentle, and looked as much like a grizzly bear as a person _could_ look without actually _being_ an anthropomorphic bear.

Allan had always said that John was like a very stubborn old uncle—he offered advice only when it was asked for, did things his own damn way no matter what anybody said, and let people make their own stupid mistakes so that they might learn from them. The only exceptions to this were Alice and little John, on whom he quietly doted.

Building a fence was something Will had done so many times that by now, he could do it without much thought.

From inside the house, he could vaguely hear the sounds of Alice in the kitchen and the radio in the background. It was probably more war news—anybody who had a radio had it more or less constantly tuned into a broadcast station for updates on the situation. As much as he wanted to tune the words out, he was still listening in. Something was mentioned about the newly formed Home Guard, and people were being evacuated from Gibraltar—though he wondered vaguely why anybody would try and invade Gibraltar.

The war threatened to move closer and closer, and he shivered despite the heat. The last news he'd heard before this was the news of bombings in Scotland, and that was hardly welcome news. After that, Robin went north to offer help in any way he could; it wouldn't have surprised him in the least if the man came back with two dozen Scottish refugees.

He sort of expected it, actually. That was just the way Robin was. He could never, _ever_ simply walk by when he saw others in need.

If fate had decided he was going to fall in love with another man, he wondered, why wasn't it Robin? Robin was kind and charitable, admirable, and very handsome. Local girls put him on the same level as Clark Gable and Cary Grant, the way that almost every one of them spent large chunks of their adolescence swooning over him.

Or Allan. Girls loved Allan simply for being Allan, for being sly and smooth and silly.

For that matter, why didn't he fancy Cary Grant or Clark Gable?

Why was he even thinking so much about this?

He turned his mind back to his work, worried that letting his mind wander would lead him to bash his thumb with the hammer.

When he looked up, he blinked a few times before he realized that the fence was finished. He hardly remembered doing any work at all.

He collected his pay, and gratefully accepted a glass of cold water, from Alice before he made his way back down the front path in the direction of his house. Except he didn't get far.

He heard the familiar voice before the impact registered in his brain.

"Hey, mate!" Allan yelled as he wrapped an arm around Will's neck and bent him sideways at an awkward angle.

"Allan!" He bellowed, shoving his friend away from him and rubbing his suddenly sore neck. "Why don't you ever just say 'hello', eh? Why d'you always have to turn a simple greeting into a possible trip to hospital?"

"More fun this way."

He grunted. "Thought you had work today," he said, hefting his toolbag.

"Nope—today's my day off. Poor Djaq's got work, though."

His chest twinged—he'd hoped to see Djaq today.

"What's wrong with you? You don't look so good."

Blood rushed in his ears; he _wished_ that he could tell Allan his problem, just to get it off his chest, but he was terrified of the ramifications. But then, he didn't really think Allan was the type to ditch a long-time friend over something like this. Still…

"Hello?" He waved a hand in front of his face. "Will, have you left the planet?"

"I have to tell you something," he blurted before his mind could assess the situation. If he couldn't trust his best friend, he couldn't trust _anybody._ "But you've got to _swear_ you won't tell anybody."

Noting the deadly serious tone in his friend's voice, the young man nodded, his blue eyes wide. "I wouldn't blab on something if it's serious." Pause. _"Is_ it serious? You're not dying, are you?"

"No, it's nothing like that. But…" he took a deep breath. "Look, it's bad. If I tell you and you never want to talk to me again, I'll understand."

"All right, _fine—_it's a deal. Just tell me. Did you kill somebody or something? Rob a bank? Join the Nazi Party? Steal the Queen's knickers—"

The words tumbled out of his mouth in an incomprehensibly fast jumble. "I think I fancy Djaq."

"You—_what?"_

"I fancy Djaq," he repeated, this time slower.

"Djaq—you mean _our_ Djaq? Girly-boy Djaq?"

He winced and nodded.

"No offense, mate, but you've got lousy taste in men."

This comment made absolutely no sense. "Pardon?"

"I mean—what's he have that I haven't got?"

The bottom of his stomach nearly dropped out and he felt the blood drain out of the rest of his body to come and circulate in his face.

"Geez, Will, don't turn that colour purple—it was only a joke!"

"Some joke," he rasped, catching his breath and recovering from that brief shock.

"So, what, that's it? You fancy Djaq?"

"Well… yes."

"So what? It isn't half obvious you like him."

"But… Djaq's a boy."

He sighed and shook his head. "Look, I'm not gonna hang the 'homosexual' label on you and start wailing on you with a cricket bat or anything. So you fancy Djaq—we're still friends."

"And that's… it?"

"Yeah."

An enormous wave of relief washed over him then. He wasn't exactly sure _what_ he expected from Allan—but his friend's unquestioning acceptance of his declaration was the best outcome he could possibly hope for. His breath released in a hiss and his shoulders relaxed.

"And you swear you won't tell anybody—not even him. Please?"

"'Course I won't. Not my secret to share, is it?"

The smirk on his face was an irritating one, as if he was himself keeping a secret from him.

"And, hey—don't worry about it, all right? Things'll work out in the end."

o…o

The end of July—chugging slowly along to the smoggy end of summer. Nothing much had changed between Will and Allan since his confession—it seemed even _he_ knew that this wasn't something to tease him about. Instead they lived in quiet understanding, although he still had that terrible, smug look on his face all the time, a look that made the young cabinetmaker fairly _ache_ to hit him in the teeth with a steak tenderizer.

It wouldn't be long before Allan was old enough to enlist, like he'd said he would do, though Will would not be eighteen until March. He wondered if his friend still intended to join the army, or if he'd forgotten—or perhaps he'd hoped that everybody _else_ forgot. All around them, young men were counting the days to their eighteenth birthdays, or waiting dutifully for their lifelong mates to turn eighteen so that they could all enlist together.

He wasn't sure himself if he wanted to join the army; certainly it would be the best thing to do for his country, but the sickly cowardly part of him simply didn't fancy the idea of going to another country to be riddled with bullets. He'd only ever confided these sentiments in Djaq, whose advice had been simply, "You should do what you think is right."

Of course, there was that nagging in the back of his head of what might happen if he _did_ join the army with his… condition. Except that he was fairly certain that Djaq was an anomaly, and he doubted that he would find himself attracted to any other young men.

Now he was walking towards the familiar hill with a brown paper-wrapped package, a birthday gift for his friend. He hadn't known quite what to get for Djaq that the boy would like _and_ accept. He'd settled on books, a modest stack of Agatha Christie mysteries—his friend's favourite writer.

Djaq wasn't in the stables—or farmyard, as it was fast becoming—like he thought he'd be, and he knew he wasn't working at the restaurant today.

"Hello?" He called out tentatively. "Djaq?"

No response. He walked through the barn, looking in the chicken-coop stall, the gardening shed stall, and the stall that now housed a goat.

Nothing.

Perhaps he was in the stable-master's house, he thought as he walked around to the far side of the barn. The curtains were all drawn.

"Djaq?" He rapped on the door, feeling suddenly very nervous. "It's just me."

Still, no response.

He reached for the doorknob, and found that the door was unlocked; he carefully opened the door, not entirely sure why he was doing so. Maybe he could just leave the books where he'd find them later.

The door swung open slowly, creaking on old hinges. He saw a figure standing at the far side of the one little room, back turned to him. Overalls were unfastened from the top, the braces and bib hanging from slender hips; the shirt was discarded, revealing smooth brown skin and mildly curved figure.

Will tried to form the words, but he couldn't. His mouth worked, but no words came out. The only thing he could do was voice a timid, mousy squeak.

In slow motion, he saw the figure turn around, first the head and then the rest of the torso. Dark eyes widened in shock and terror, arms wrapped securely around the chest in an effort to cover as much as possible—but not before he saw…

There was a terrible scream, and he immediately jumped back and slammed the door closed to give him—to give_ her—_privacy.

Angry babbling in Arabic came from inside, and a great deal of thumping and scrambling followed.

He began to apologize in jumbled tones, quickly and rather ineffectively. "I'm—I'm _so_ sorry! I didn't… I was just going to… I thought…" but he couldn't come up with anything to say. His mind was still trying to process what he'd just seen.

The door wrenched open and a hand roughly grabbed his arm and dragged him indoors.

"Why were you here? What were you _thinking?_ Were you never taught to _knock_ before barging into somebody's house?" The barrage of questions was in an angry voice; it sounded like she was barely able to keep from yelling.

"I—I—I—" he panted, unable to say a great deal more. His friend's gender was obvious, now, a plain white t-shirt thrown on haphazardly and only one strap of the overalls were done up. She must have normally worn something to bind herself flat…

He looked down and was astonished to see Djaq looking up at him with those big black eyes, no longer angry but on the verge of tears.

"I suppose… I owe you an explanation."

All he could do in response was nod.

"You look like you need to sit down—here," she led him to one of the chairs at the tiny kitchen table. "Would you like a drink of water?"

Again, he nodded his head dumbly as his power of speech slowly returned. Now that the initial shock was over, he felt a tiny tinge of anger starting to blossom in his stomach.

"Who _are you?"_ He asked.

She placed a glass of water in front of him and sat down across the table, but offered no answer.

"Let's start with something simple. What's your _name?"_

"My true name is Safiyyah. Djaq is—was—my brother."

"I know this sort of sounds like the obvious question, but _why did you lie to everybody?"_

"I did not lie to _everybody,"_ the girl said, looking thoroughly guilty as her hands fiddled nervously on the table.

"Well you didn't tell us the truth!"

She shook her head. "No. I did not."

He drained his glass before he continued. "Is there a particular reason _why_ you decided to play a boy for… well, at least a year and a half!"

She said nothing, just stayed with her hands folded on the table before her and her head bowed low.

"Djaq—Safiyyah?"

"Djaq," she said quickly. "I would prefer for you to call me Djaq."

"All right then—d'you care to answer, or do you need a few minutes to come up with a story?"

"I do not know what it is worth, but I have been true to myself. The person you know is _me,_ and I have lied about nothing else. Not to you, or Allan, or anybody."

"Did anybody else know?"

"Only Robin and Marian."

"And why did you feel the need to… become your… brother?" He was having a great deal of difficulty wrapping his head around this. What the hell was going on? Was this another one of those Djaq-is-a-girl dreams?

"Because I was afraid," she said in an uncharacteristically low and frightened voice, soft and with that familiar husky accent that melted his insides.

"What of?"

"The world. I was frightened to be alone, after my brother died. I was frightened of what would happen to me—to Safiyyah—as a girl. I thought it would be safer."

"Then why did you keep pretending?"

"Because I found it so hard… I could not stop." She sounded absolutely ashamed of herself. "At first it was only for security, to keep me safe. The world is less dangerous for boys than it is for girls," she explained, having been through this conversation with Marian just a few months previous.

"How is Nottingham dangerous?"

"Not Nottingham, but… other places. What future did I have, a foreign girl all alone? There are certain… assaults to which girls are vulnerable, but boys are not."

He slowly absorbed this and his eyes went wide in fear as the realization dawned on him.

"And, as a boy, I had to make do dishonestly—lying, cheating, stealing. But even the most dishonest work as a boy is better than the only honest work that would have been available to me as a girl."

"Djaq…" he breathed, as the weight of her words slowly sank in. He always knew that life for Djaq had been difficult before "his" arrival in Nottinghamshire, but it was only now that he realized how hard it must have been on him_—her._

"I was frightened," she said again, as a sort of condensed explanation. "And then, I was fascinated, because the world was _different_ for me as a boy. People treated me differently."

"How do you mean?" He asked, his brows furrowed in confusion. "I wouldn't have…"

"Do you know that? How do you think you would have behaved if you came down to the stables last year, and there was a girl there, instead of a boy? How do you think Allan would have behaved? Luke? _Everybody?"_

"I—" he began, and then he stopped. He hadn't thought about this before; he didn't imagine that he, personally, would treat Djaq-the-girl any different than Djaq-the-boy, but he wasn't certain of what would have happened if Djaq had _always_ been a girl. He liked to think that he'd treat her in the same way, but… he couldn't say for sure. He knew that her relationship with Allan would probably have been completely different from the start. And Luke was still at that age when he thought girls were an entirely different species.

She seemed to know exactly what he was thinking. "You see?"

"You didn't think you could trust anybody? We're your friends—or aren't we? I'm confused…"

"I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you so badly, but… I was afraid of what you might do, or think. I thought you might hate me, for lying to you…" she wiped a hand over her eyes quickly. "And if you _do_ hate me, and never want to speak to me again, then I will understand."

This was sounding oddly similar to his conversation with Allan several days before.

"No," he said quickly. "I don't hate you. I still care about you, but… I only wish you'd trusted me enough to tell me."

She released a slow, shaky breath and lifted her head, a tiny smile on her lips.

"And… for what it's worth, I like to think _I'll_ still think of you the same way."

Suddenly, belatedly, he realized something, and a massive weight lifted from his shoulders. _Djaq was a girl._ He didn't fancy another boy. The worry he felt for the last year, the unexplainable attraction to "him" and nobody else, and those bizarre dreams… it all tumbled into place.

He must have been sitting there with a very silly smile on his face, because she frowned at him.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm _relieved_ more than anything else."

"Why?"

He felt a blush creep into his face now. He didn't know if he should tell her.

"Well…" he fidgeted. "I… I dunno how to say this, but… I like you."

"Oh?"

Oh god—he could feel the heat in his face rising up like a teakettle.

"You do not have to tell me any more if you would rather not."

"I was afraid I fancied another lad," he confessed.

She looked down again and sighed. She hadn't given a lot of thought about what her façade would do to _others._ She'd simply never considered the possibility that somebody—male or female—might take a fancy to her. The only thing's she'd really concerned herself with were the immediate effects on _herself._ Now that she thought on it, her masquerade must have been equally difficult on him as it was for her. It couldn't have been easy for him, living with the belief that he was attracted to another boy, and she hoped he hadn't told anybody about it.

"You did not tell anybody, did you?"

Pause.

"Will?"

"I told Allan, but he didn't much care."

That was a relief to hear; Allan was one of the most open-minded people she'd ever met, and despite his normal teasing silliness, knew when _not_ to poke fun of somebody.

"You're going to tell him, aren't you?" Will asked after another pause.

"I must—it is unfair for one friend to know without the other. But please, do not tell anybody else," she begged, looking up at him. "I do not wish to risk my worst fear coming true on such a massive scale."

"You can't stay a boy forever."

"I know that. But I think perhaps it might be better if I eased Nottingham into the idea gradually."

He wasn't sure how, exactly, she could go from one sex to the other _gradually_ and have nobody be the wiser, but he didn't say anything. He was still trying to process everything that had happened in the last ten minutes—that one of his closest friends, a person that he'd always thought of as a skinny and slightly girlish young boy was, in fact, a _girl._

But then again, a lot of things made sense now. She never went swimming or played sport when invited, her choice in clothes—overalls—disguised her figure. Nobody had _ever_ seen her in less than a full shroud of denim and a t-shirt, even when the weather was hot and any boy doing work outdoors would have taken his shirt off.

It was amazing, thinking about it, the degree to which she'd had to watch her every move so as not to betray her identity.

He could hear her talking and turned his attention back to her.

"I know you do not make a habit out of walking into people's houses," she was saying. "Is there something you needed?"

He'd completely forgotten about that; the package he held was starting to feel like an actual part of his arm while he sat there.

"Oh, right. I, um—these are for you," he said, stuttering awkwardly and handing the parcel to her across the table somewhat unceremoniously. "For your birthday."

She looked at him with narrowed eyes—for a second he thought she might scold him, as she did to just about everybody, but instead she carefully unwrapped the paper. He watched as her eyes lit up.

"Christie's—I haven't read these." She smiled. "Thank you."

He felt his ears turning red again.

She stood up and walked to his side of the table. "And I can do this, now," was all she said before she kissed him on the cheek.

His face turned even redder.

o…o

"Allan?" She said timidly, fiddling her hands on the clasps of her overalls. She felt sweaty and clammy and _nervous_ but she knew what needed to be done. He looked up from the table he was cleaning and gave a little nod. "May I talk with you? In private?"

"There's only the two of us in here, Djaq."

"I mean, someplace less visible from the street."

The restaurant was closed for the night and it was late, but she didn't want to be in full view of any passer-by.

"You okay? You weren't yourself this afternoon and you made a few mistakes on your billpad. That's not like you, Prince of Figures."

She sighed. That had become her nickname in the restaurant, as she was the person who could best and _quickest_ do the maths for orders. The other servers kept bringing her their billpads to add up for them. But this afternoon, her mind had been all over the place. She hadn't told Allan yet, but promised Will that she'd do it. She waited until closing time and stayed after with him to help him tidy the tables, to make sure that she had no audience.

"Come back here," she said, holding open the door to the back room. "We can talk here."

He slung the dishcloth over his shoulder and followed her into the back.

"So, what's on your mind, mate?"

"I have… something important to tell you."

"I gathered as much. You plan on telling me, or are we gonna stay here all night until I guess it?"

Normally, that comment might have made her giggle, but not tonight—she was far too nervous. She closed the door firmly behind her and leaned back against it; she hadn't the faintest idea how to start this.

"I have to be honest," she choked. "And… if I am being honest, I have been keeping something from you. Since we met."

He leaned casually against the adjacent wall with his hands in his pockets, looking at her with those piercing blue eyes. "Have you?" The tone of his voice was remarkably casual, as if people were always seeking him out to reveal their deepest, darkest secrets.

She was a bit taken aback by this, but she steeled herself.

"I am… not who you think I am."

His expression didn't change—he just stood there and waited for her to continue.

"My name is not Djaq. Djaq was my brother. My name… is Safiyyah."

"That a girl's name?"

"Yes. Because… I am…"

"A girl?" He finished for her.

All she could do in response was nod, and wait for the inevitable explosion.

But it never came.

"I'm glad you finally decided to tell me," he said.

It was all she could do to keep her mouth from dropping open in utter shock. "You are not… not surprised? Or angry?"

"Naw. I already knew."

If she hadn't already been leaning on the door, she would have fallen down.

"You _knew?_ How? When?"

"I guessed, actually. Months ago. The more I watched you, the more it started being kind of obvious."

"Obvious… _how?"_ She asked, frowning in confusion. How in the world had _Allan_ worked something out that _Will_ hadn't? She'd always thought of him as sweetly oblivious to the world, and Will was more quietly observant.

"Little things, I guess. The way you've never expressed interest in girls. The way you carry stuff on your hip. That you've never been worried about your distinct lack of facial hair. Once I started noticing, I was kinda surprised nobody else noticed."

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?"

He rubbed the back of his neck. "Well… not my business, is it? I didn't know why you were pretending, but you're pretty level-headed so I figured there had to be a good reason for it. You'd tell me when you were ready."

"I suppose I ought to thank you, for keeping it a secret. You could have told anybody, but…" she trailed off.

"You tell Will yet?"

Her face burned and she was very grateful that her dark skin kept her blush from being obvious.

"He knows," was all she said.

Allan smiled and reached out to rumple her hair like he always did. "I'm glad."

She knocked his hand aside. "I asked him, and now I will ask you the same favour—please do not tell anybody else."

"I wouldn't do that, mate. You know that."

"Will this… will this change things?" The question had been bothering her. Allan was such a hard person to figure sometimes, she didn't know how he'd act after this.

"Between you'n me?"

"Yes."

In true Allan fashion, he cuffed her on the shoulder. "I don't think so. I mean—you're Djaq. I'm not gonna change 'cos I know you're Safiyyah." Pause. "I don't have to call you that, now, do I? It'll take a lot of getting used-to."

Her smile broadcast her relief and she combed a hand through her recently cut hair. "No, I am still Djaq."

"Good. Now that that's over—let's finish up here and go home."

As he went back to cleaning his tables, she felt giddy and light and absolutely _relieved._ Part of her reproached her unwillingness to admit this sooner, given her friend's reactions to her secret—but that was all passed now. Everything was all right.

Grinning, she went back to work.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Note to self: keep chapter lengths under control.

I know what you're thinking—_IT'S ABOUT TIME!_ And I know it is, but I just wanted to fool around with the gender confusion. Poor Will didn't get a good look at her chest, though. That's actually one of my favourite scenes in the series, with him standing there looking positively shell-shocked. My reaction was, "Oh, give that poor boy a break! He's still trying to figure out what he saw!"

Djaq also strikes me as the type of person to read Agatha Christie novels—and be able to solve the mystery about halfway through the book. I hate people like that…


	6. December, 1940

Ugh, it's really late, or really early. Insomnia is going to be the death of me—but in the meantime, I'm posting this chapter. I figure it counts, because it's _technically_ Friday.

When I wrote this chapter, it was 34 degrees outside. While I was writing about December. It felt really weird; the contradiction was incredible! I long for a cold night…

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended in my use of the BBC's Robin Hood characters. Or in my use of WWII. Or Christmas. Small bits of the dialogue in this chapter (you'll know it when you see it) is recycled from the show, and I don't own _it,_ either.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**December, 1940**

Her third winter in Nottingham wasn't any better than the first. She was still cold and miserable, and put up with a great deal of teasing from her friends over her dislike of the weather.

She was relieved at how little had really changed between the three of them—except for pronouns. Allan started flirting with her a bit; at first she wasn't too keen on it, but it grew on her. She supposed it was his way of acknowledging her sex the only way he knew how. It wasn't so bad, though. Having not had much of an opportunity in her life to be a girl, it was sort of fun to flirt right back at him. Although, at sixteen, perhaps she was a little late in starting.

Even Will kept mostly the same towards her, even though she knew that he felt something a little more than friendship for her. He never acted on it, never made her feel uncomfortable. In truth, she hadn't really expected him to—that just wasn't the way he was. It was almost as if _he_ was letting her get used to the idea just as she was letting her friends get used to her identity. Either that, or he was absolutely terrified, which was also equally plausible.

The war was still in motion, and going badly. Luftwaffe—the German Air Force—was constantly flying in and dropping bombs on the country in massive air raid attacks. London was a pile of rocks on top of a slightly larger pile of rubble. People were fleeing heavily populated cities to come to more rural areas, making the locals of those areas fear that with the sudden onslaught of people, they would be the next targets.

Marian and Robin—being Marian and Robin—went to volunteer for weeks on end in the more heavily hit areas of London. As a nurse, Marian's presence was probably more helpful than Robin's was; though he did have money and resources, and his own way of helping people. He was eager, and strong—and that was all they needed.

It was Christmas time, but people were hardly in good morale. It was hard to be cheerful while packing food, water, and supplies into bomb shelters and wearing those hideous-looking gas masks and waiting on pins and needles for the next air raid. Nobody knew when or where the next hit would be.

Perhaps it was because of this that Robin announced, upon returning from London with Marian a week before, that he was going to throw a Christmas party. To lighten everybody's spirits, she supposed.

They certainly needed it.

Djaq sat quietly at the counter in the restaurant, a pile of receipts and billpads scattered around her lunch plate. She was eating with one hand and adding up totals with the other, only occasionally mixing up her fork with her pen.

"Much, what is this?" She asked, waving a piece of paper in front of the kitchen opening.

The man appeared, wiping his hands on a dishcloth.

"You can tell what it is, can't you?" He growled at her. "It's a receipt."

"What is it _for?_ I cannot read it."

He snatched it away from her with his familiar grumpy expression. "Sales figures from last week when I re-ordered," he grunted, handing it back. "Why'd you have to ask me?"

She took the paper back and sighed. "I cannot always read your handwriting, Much. It is all smudged and sloppy—like somebody smashed a spider on your pad."

"It isn't _my_ fault! I'm left-handed and the ink smudges!"

"Whatever you say," she said with a shake of her head.

"You shouldn't antagonize your boss," Allan said behind her. When she turned around, he winked at her.

"I can hardly help it. He makes it so easy. And anyway, he will not do anything."

"That's 'cos you're so cute he can't bring himself to yell at you."

"Or maybe he knows that I am good at what I do. And that if I were not here, he would have to trust _your_ maths."

"You can't ever let a compliment go unchallenged, can you?"

"Not from you."

He chuckled, and as he walked past her to go back to work, he pushed her hair forward; she glared at his back as he walked away.

She took her time finishing up her lunch and work. Her shift was over and she didn't have anywhere else to go after this. The days had fallen into a pattern for her. She woke up early and tended the garden and the horses and the other animals that Robin kept; if she was working the lunch shift that day, she'd go back to bed for an hour or so before going to work. When she was on the dinner shift—or not working at all—she had to find something to _do_ with her afternoons until Will was out of school or until Allan was off of work.

Robin had fewer and fewer horses, and more and more farm animals. Now, in addition to chickens and two goats, she was also taking care of some ducks, _and_ the vegetable garden—which was fine, because only seven horses remained and her original job had greatly diminished. She was still tutoring Luke in mathematics when he needed, and picked up another job with little John Little. Allan was decent enough to keep his flirting in check when they happened to be in the Little's house at the same time.

Both he and Will respected her request not to tell anybody else about her identity, and just let her ease back into being a girl. She'd stopped wearing the bandage to bind her breasts, on the theory that it was winter and nobody would be the wiser while she was in her heavy clothes—and, she reminded herself a little bitterly, she didn't have a great deal to strap down. She hadn't cut her hair since August, either, and it feathered around her face as it hadn't done in years.

It felt kind of good, actually.

"You know, I think he likes you."

She turned to see Much hanging out of the kitchen again; he was one of the other people who'd come to know her true sex.

"Allan? No, we are just friends."

"With all that flirting?"

"He flirts with everybody. He does not mean anything by it."

"Uh-huh."

She ignored him and went back to the columns of numbers. Once she finished, she gathered up all of the receipts and billpads and left them in his office. Then she hefted her knapsack onto her shoulder—she kept her restaurant clothes in there, so as not to get them dirty on the way home—and bid goodbye to her co-workers before bundling up in her coat and heading out.

A blast of cold air whipped her face as soon as she walked out the door, and she pulled the collar of her coat up around her ears and jammed her hands down in her pockets. She walked past two men putting up a garland around one of the sirens anchored on a street lamp, in an effort to make a reminder of the war look a little more cheery. Those sirens blared a horrible wailing noise to warn everybody in the area of an air raid and signal them to hurry to the nearest shelter. Every town had them, though Djaq wasn't really sure they were necessary—maybe only four or five were needed for all of England, as she imagined the sound could probably be heard as far away as Norway.

The scene around her looked little like those idealized paintings and postcards she'd become accustomed to seeing around this time of year—the ones that showed people bundled tightly in bright red coats, walking hand-in-hand through powdery snow against a backdrop of buildings, each one with glowing yellow windows and wearing a jolly little snow hat. Nothing really looked like that. It snowed a few days ago here, but it'd since melted and all that remained of it was soggy piles of gray-yellow slush.

Hardly charming.

She felt a folded piece of card in her pocket and for a second she couldn't remember what it was, until she pulled it out and had a look at it. The fancy invitation was written in lacy script and embellished with little line-drawings of holly and poinsettias.

An invitation to Robin's Christmas party.

She hadn't really expected to _be_ invited—partially because she wasn't a Christian, and partially because Robin must've known she would turn the invite down automatically. On the other hand, it was nice that he'd thought of her. But she'd have to inform him that she wouldn't be coming. She knew she'd feel hopelessly out of place at a fancy 'do like that.

She stepped out across the road quickly, barely missing being clipped by a passing car. She turned around and yelled a few choice insults in Arabic before hopping up onto the pavement and rooting around in her pockets for some pennies for bus fare.

Most of the time, she preferred to save her money and walk home instead of taking the bus, but not today. It was miserable enough to warrant the ride. She flagged one down as it passed as she counted out the change in her hand. There were only a dozen or so other passengers, mostly ladies with their shopping and their children too young to be in school; a few of them nodded hello to her as she boarded and took a seat near the middle.

The bus rumbled off again in a cloud of white smoke. Djaq leaned her head back against her seat and hugged her knapsack to her chest as she stared blankly out the window. Every building was decorated with garlands and wreaths and little Christmassy posters, and children were starting to talk about Father Christmas.

She'd never understood the Western fascination with this holiday—she hardly even understood the holiday itself. What did evergreens, sweets, and a fat man in a red suit have to do with the birth of the Prophet Yeshuah? It all seemed very strange to her. She mostly attributed it to the fact that she didn't share their faith, but despite this, the spirit of the holiday was growing on her. Peace on earth and goodwill to mankind were good sentiments to have, weren't they? Especially these days. And anything that stopped the fighting for a few days—the annual Christmas truce—had to be a good thing.

She felt a pang in her chest as she thought about the war. No end was anywhere in sight, and the German Army seemed unstoppable. Allan was talking a great deal about joining the army with Will, and the thought of this terrified her. The countdown to Will's eighteenth birthday was three months—three months until he could enlist. Three months until he—until _both_ of them—could go to war. She desperately didn't want to think about what would happen if her friends went to Europe… and never came back. As much as she hated to think of it, she knew it was a distinct possibility.

She shivered in her seat and tugged absently at the fibres of her coat.

What terrible thoughts to have.

The gentle rumbling and rocking motion of the bus lulled her into a half-sleep as her thoughts wandered. She wondered if Allan and Will were going to this party. They probably would, if they'd been invited. Or at least Allan would. He would never pass up the opportunity to cavort with pretty girls in their nicest clothes. Of _course_ he'd go. Will might not be very keen on the idea, though—she'd never known him to be terribly comfortable in crowds and he might not enjoy such a big party. Maybe if he didn't go, the two of them could go to the cinema or something. She'd get some time alone with him, which she hadn't gotten much of lately.

As the bus turned a corner, she smacked her head into the window next to her and snapped out of her thoughts. She recognized this street—in a few minutes she'd have to get off and walk the rest of the way.

The bus hissed to a stop on the corner, and Djaq exited, bundling herself back into her coat and walking the well-known route towards Robin's.

Instead of going down the hill towards the stables, she made her way up the long front garden path to the front door, hoping to talk to him so that she could properly decline the invitation. May as well get it done as soon as possible. She rang the doorbell and waited.

To her surprise, Marian answered.

"Oh, hello, Djaq," she said cheerily.

For a split second, she wondered if she hadn't gone to the wrong place. "I fell asleep on the bus—I _did_ come to the right house, yes?"

"Of course you did."

"So Robin has you answering his front door, now?"

"No, he hasn't. I was already up. Come in," she stepped to the side, allowing the younger girl to walk indoors out of the cold. "I take it you need to see Robin?"

"Yes, please. I wanted to answer his invitation. I do not have a telephone, and it is silly to post a letter that is only going as far as up the hill."

"Certainly," she replied, grinning in a rather silly way. Her cheeks were all rosy, and Djaq found herself wondering what she might have interrupted. "Robin!" She called.

He responded quickly, coming through an arched doorway with an equally silly grin on his face and those big blue eyes glinting. Dimly—erroneously—she thought to herself that, as handsome as Robin Locksley was, he couldn't hold a candle to Will Scarlett.

"Yes, my love?" It was clear he didn't notice that she was there.

Marian nodded her head towards Djaq; he looked over at her.

"Ah, hello there. Did you need something?"

For a second, she looked back and forth between them, once again wondering what she interrupted. Then she remembered what she came for; she pulled the invitation from her pocket.

"I am afraid I will not be able to come to your Christmas party," she said. "But thank you for the invitation."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that," he answered, patting her shoulder.

"Why not, Djaq?" Marian asked. "It'll be fun."

She sighed. "No, thank you. I would feel out of place. And besides—would I attend as a boy, or as a girl?"

"I suppose you have a point," she sighed. "But you might be disappointing your friends."

She shrugged. "I doubt it. They will survive if they go to a party and I am not there."

"Pity, that," she replied.

Robin whispered something in her ear and then turned back to Djaq. "It's your decision. Thank you for telling me. Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"

Marian's gaze flickered.

"Thank you, but no," she said, knowing that she risked Marian's wrath if she accepted this offer and hung about any longer. "I would rather go home and finish reading _Ten Little Indians."_ She nodded respectfully to either of them.

She let herself out and let them get back to… whatever they were doing. Had it been any other set of adults, she might have thought the answer was obvious. But Robin Locksley and Marian Knighton were a very, very odd couple indeed. They could have been doing absolutely _anything._

Halfway down the stone path, she cut across the garden, now gray and brown and lifeless in winter. It was the quickest way to get from the house to the stables, without going back up to the road and taking that awful hill.

The barnyard was slick and muddy, even despite the liberal coating of straw she put down—she'd hoped it was going to soak up the wet and make walking in the mud easier, but it didn't work.

Upon arriving home, she dropped her bag on a chair, took off her boots, and stripped off her dirty overalls. She didn't even bother putting anything else on her lower half—she just wrapped herself in a blanket and snuggled down in bed with her book.

She didn't know when she'd fallen asleep, but she must have done so because the next thing she was aware of was a knocking at her door.

She groaned softly and sat up.

"Who's there?"

"It's Will."

Immediately, she jumped out of bed and made a dive for the door. She nearly opened it before she remembered she was half undressed and should probably put some _clothes_ on.

"Just a moment!" She called as she bumbled clumsily around.

She turned a light on with one hand and groped around the floor for something to wear with the other; she settled on yesterday's overalls, buttoning them at the waist and letting the back and bib hang down. That done, she stumbled over to the front door, kicking her muddy clothes out of the way so neither of them would trip over them.

"I am sorry about that," she apologized as she let him in. She felt a bit nervous all of a sudden. "I am a little sluggish."

"You look like you just got up," the young man said as he stepped inside.

"Because I did."

His eyes widened and he looked guilty. "I didn't mean to—"

"It is all right. I would have been up all night if you had not woken me."

"Oh… right."

They stood facing one another, each of them fidgeting bashfully. She tangled her hands in the loose bib of her overalls; he looked away with a nervous smile and casually rubbed his neck. His cheeks were rosy pink from his walk outside in the cold and Djaq thought it made him look sweetly lovely.

She figured he must have come to see her for _something_ and just needed a nudge in the right direction.

"So, did you…?"

"Yes! Oh—that, yes," he stuttered. Then he looked like he'd suddenly remembered something. "Luke's been having trouble in maths again, and my Dad wanted to know if you could come and help him over the school holiday, so he could be prepared for the next term."

"That will be no trouble," she replied, feeling her chest fall a bit. What was that about—she hadn't been expecting anything, had she? "But why did you come all the way out here yourself? You could have phoned."

"You haven't got a telephone."

"Robin does. It would be easier for him to walk a message over than for you to come all this way."

"Well, I also wanted to, um… to ask you something."

"What about?"

"Did you get your invitation to Robin's Christmas party?"

She nodded.

His ears were bright red. "Are you going to go?"

Her heart skipped a beat. "No, I am not. I have just been to see Robin and told him."

"Oh…"

"Why?"

"I wanted—I'd _hoped _you might come with me." The red was spreading from his ears into the rest of his face.

Once again, she found herself very grateful that her dark complexion kept her embarrassment from being visible to him.

"I do not think I can go, though," she reminded him. "I have already said I was not attending."

"My invitation says 'plus one'," he quickly replied. "You can still come. As my… date."

The red in his face was so intense, she thought he'd glow in the dark.

"I thought Allan said that he was finding a girl for you to take," she said, unsure why she was bringing it up.

"He offered, yeah," he said with a nod. "But, I… I didn't want to. I'd _really_ like it to be you."

She _wanted_ to say yes, but it would be for some silly reasons. Just to spend time with him, have him to herself. Not terribly good reasons to go to a party she'd already turned down.

"I am not Christian. I would be terribly out of place."

"When Robin throws parties like this, they're less about religion and more about sociable eating in bulk."

She snorted.

"Please?"

The word "yes" was on her lips but she couldn't make herself say it. But, really, what was she afraid of? Many people already knew of her gender, and hiding it was no long a matter of life and death. It really didn't seem like such a bad idea, after all…

She looked down at her well-loved and worn clothing. She didn't really have much—a few sets of overalls and some nicer clothes to wear when she worked in the restaurant. It never seemed practical for her to have much clothing, and particularly not clothes for a _girl._ She was supposed to be hiding her gender, not flaunting it.

That was another thing—why was she nearly ready to take this chance just for _one_ evening? It hardly seemed worth it. Even though there was no need to hide her sex anymore, she still didn't feel comfortable flaunting her femininity the way other women did. Largely because she wasn't secure in her femininity. And yet…

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," he assured after a silence, trying unsuccessfully to disguise the defeated tone in his voice. "I just… thought I'd ask."

"I do not have a dress," she said quietly.

"Pardon?"

"This will sound terribly girlish. I would like to go with you, but—I honestly haven't a thing to wear," she said, gesturing towards her clothes. "Unless I am allowed to go in overalls, in which case I might look quite out of place."

He thought for a moment, one thumbnail idly in his mouth. "I could g—"

"Do _not_ spend money on me, Will Scarlett!"

"How'd you know I was going to say that?"

"Because I know _you."_

"Then what d'you suppose we do?"

She chewed her lower lip; he watched her intently, unblinking.

"You should still go," she said. "If you want to. But I think perhaps it would be better if I did not. But thank you. For asking."

She clasped her hands tightly in front of her and didn't look at him, giving him the opportunity to leave. When she _did_ look up, she was surprised to see a small smile on his lips.

"You said you'd like to come with me," he said.

"Yes, I did. I _would,_ but I do not think I can manage it."

His smile was wider, now. "But if you _did_ have a dress, you'd come?"

"If you spend money that you do not have, I shall hit you!"

He winced; he knew that Djaq had a mean punch. "All right, all right—I won't."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "It is not anything personal," she assured him.

"I know." He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled a foot on the floor. "I should go. I told Dad I wouldn't be long—I'll let him know about Luke."

She showed him out, feeling guilty as she watched him through her front window. She knew it wasn't a good idea, for all the reasons she'd already given Will—but she still felt badly about having to turn him down.

Maybe she'd ask him to the cinema. Her treat.

o…o

Djaq decided that the sky had absolutely _no business_ being quite this bright and clear in December, to fool her into thinking it was going to be a nice day only to shock her with that jarring cold air the second she stepped outside. She _hated_ it. Such deception should have been illegal.

She'd spoken to Will the previous afternoon, and apologized again for turning him down for the party; he shrugged it off and told her that it was no big deal. But she wasn't sure she believed that. It must have taken him a long time to work up the courage it would have taken him to ask her. She'd even gone through her bank account to see if she could spare the money to buy a dress, but she thought the better of it. Cloth was scarce and expensive, and she simply couldn't merit spending money on a dress that she would only get one turn out of—even for Will Scarlett.

But she still felt badly.

She walked from the house back to the stables, carrying a basket with three eggs in it on her hip—two chicken eggs and a duck egg that Robin let her keep from this morning's egg haul. Certainly better than her one-egg-a-week ration.

She opened the door and set the basket down on her table, then turned around and nearly jumped up through the ceiling, voicing her displeasure loudly in her native tongue, when she saw Marian sitting in one of her plush chairs.

"Goodness, Djaq," the woman said with an amused expression. "I gave you a bit of a fright, didn't I?"

"Just a bit," she panted, a hand pressed to her chest. She _had_ to see about getting a lock for that door. "Why are you here?"

"I thought we might have a chat," she said. "Come, have a seat."

"I have to be invited to sit in my own home?" The girl asked sarcastically, even as she took a seat in the other chair. "What did you want to talk about?"

"Actually," she reached behind the chair and pulled out a brown paper bag. "I have something for you."

"What—?"

"I was going through a closet and I found some of my old things," she explained. "I saw this, and I thought of you."

Frowning, Djaq reached for the offered parcel and reached inside; her fingers brushed a smooth fabric. She pulled it from the bag and saw the light pink satiny material. A dress.

"Marian…"

"I've had it for years, but I never wore it much. I thought you might get some use out of it."

"What makes you think that I would need a dress?" She asked suspiciously.

"Let's just say I heard that this was the only thing standing between you and a night of being an actual girl."

"Who told you?"

"Does it matter?"

Dark eyes narrowed, and then she sighed. "I suppose not."

She took the dress out of the bag and took a proper look at it. It _was_ very pretty…

"So, I take it this means you're going?"

"I do not—"

"Come on."

"Why do you have the urge to help me?"

"Because I like you, Djaq," she said with a soft smile.

"Am I both the brother and sister that you never had?"

"Something like that. Call me a sissy for a good love story."

Her face burned. "It is not a love story," she insisted quickly.

"Not yet, maybe."

The eve of the party found her at Marian's house, the dress bundled in her arms and a pair of new shoes in her hand. She'd already informed the young woman that Will was instructed to pick her up at _her_ house, so that he "won't have to walk down that awful muddy hill!" She'd insisted on helping her get ready for the party, very much like she imagined a big sister would. Marian even paid for the shoes, despite her protests.

She stood on the doorstep, dressed as she always was in her overalls and big woolly green coat and red trainers.

Marian answered the door with her hair wrapped, wearing a dressing gown. Djaq wondered if she knew how ridiculous she looked like that.

"Come in, come in," she ushered the girl inside with a hand over her shoulder.

"Why did you want me here so early?" She asked as she toed off her shoes.

"It takes a lady a while to get ready."

"Will I really _need_ three hours?"

"Well, I figured you'd need some… advice."

Djaq's eyebrows shot up. "What _sort_ of advice?"

"Have you ever done this before? It is a _date,_ you know."

"But it is only Will."

"But it's a _date."_

The lack of any glimmer of recognition in the teenager's face gave her away.

"All right, we'll chat while we get ready—go on upstairs, there's a bath all ready for you."

She trotted upstairs, knowing better than to argue with her.

Even though she was completely unused to behaving like a girl, she found the evening sort of… fun. In a novel kind of way. She didn't expect she'd be doing this again, so she might as well enjoy it. Marian fed her after her bath—just some toast and honey, as Robin had already arranged for there to be food at the party.

Getting into the dress was difficult; she had to navigate a slip and suspenders, a task she had never undertaken before. She wondered how women did this all the time. Her friend was very patient, enduring her inexperience and her bumbling clumsiness on the new shoes and putting various cosmetics on her flinching face. She even clipped a slide into her too-short hair. The next time Djaq looked into the mirror, the tomboyish stablehand in overalls was nowhere to be found.

The dress came off her shoulders and the full skirt stopped below her knee, a style that came into fashion years ago; the little rosette in her hair matched the pink dress, as did a little pink ribbon tied about her neck. She felt positively _adult_ dressed like this.

"You look _lovely,"_ Marian beamed.

"I look like a grown-up," she breathed.

"You certainly do."

She turned and caught sight of Marian in her long red dress and pearls and beautifully made-up hair and face, and sighed. Marian was uncommonly lovely; she could never compare to that.

"What now?" She asked.

"Wait for him to come and collect you. Don't worry, I'll stay here until he comes."

"Robin is not coming for you? I thought that was good manners…"

"The host can hardly just leave the party, can he?"

"Oh." She shifted her weight from foot to foot, feeling very jittery all of a sudden. She shouldn't have been—it was only Will, after all, as she'd kept telling Marian whenever she got a bit silly.

"You're not losing your nerve, are you?"

"I hope not."

It wasn't "just" Will, though. It was someone she _liked;_ someone who _fancied_ her. This was going to be the first time that he'd see her so obviously female, apart from that accidental glimpse months ago. She wasn't sure what would happen. Against her will, a storm of anticipatory butterflies erupted in her stomach as her mind raced through the possibilities.

A knock at the door made her heart leap from her chest to her throat, and blood rush in her ears.

"I'll get that, shall I?"

All she could do was nod dumbly.

"Stand here," Marian ordered, taking her by the shoulders and steering her around to the front hallway, several feet back from the door. "Not like you're standing in overalls—like a lady! And try not to look so terrified."

"I was not aware this needed to be choreographed." In sarcasm she found a bit of comfort.

"Put this on," she said, handing her a long heavy black velvet cape.

She obeyed, knowing that Marian would absolutely _forbid_ her from wearing her own coat because it wasn't appropriate, or formal. And it smelled faintly of hay.

Marian opened the door; Djaq looked up from the fastenings at her neck, and her heart jumped.

Will stood outside, looking approximately as nervous as she felt. He wore a long gray coat over his dark green suit; his hair was combed neatly and slicked back. He looked… _very_ handsome, actually.

He took one look in her direction and his eyes widened.

"You look… wow…"

"He'll show you out just as soon as he can let go of the doorframe," Marian said as she walked past her, leaving the two of them alone.

"She is being awfully silly about this," Djaq murmured as she joined him out on the front step, closing the door behind her. She turned to face him and looked up at him. "Hello."

He was still looked at her with his mouth slightly agape, his breath clouding in the air between them.

"Will?"

"Sorry!"

"Are you all right?"

"Yes—I'm fine. It's just…"

She tilted her head. "What?"

Pause.

"Nothing." He offered her his arm. "Shall we go?"

"Yes, please," she said, hesitantly putting her hand on his arm. It felt strange to walk this way; she was used to keeping her hands firmly jammed in her pockets and walking at least an arm's length away from him. She noted, perhaps a little strangely, that he smelled differently than usual. He normally smelled like different types of wood, the tang of metal from the tools he used, and well-worn old clothes. Tonight, he smelled of some sort of vaguely spicy cologne. It was so _different._

But hardly un-likeable.

The walk was pleasant and comfortable, but short—soon, Robin's house came into view, along with the stream of people and cars out front. She almost turned down the hill towards the stables, her body working automatically, but she managed to stop herself. It was certainly a different way of doing things—she'd never been to the house before as a guest.

He stopped walking and stared at the house, then looked down at her with those beautiful green eyes; she frowned, wondering if perhaps he was having second thoughts.

"Ready?"

She nodded quickly.

Will shifted his arm, manipulating hers until he held her hand in his, in an uncharacteristically blatant display of affection.

Djaq let him lead her by the hand through the house as she busied herself staring at the place. She'd never been beyond the front hall and, once, a sitting room. It was all very grand—nicer than any place she'd ever been in before, with huge doors and windows and covered all over in decorative wood panelling. A great big central ballroom, probably infrequently used, served as the centre of the party; garlands hung around the doorways and wreaths in the windows, sprigs of mistletoe clipped in strategic locations. Tables of food were all over the place—she wasn't quite sure _how_ he'd gotten so much food, considering everything was so tightly rationed. But if there was one thing she'd learned over the years, it was that Robin had his way of making things happen when he wanted them to, and damned be the obstacles in the way.

There were maybe fifty or sixty guests present, of varying ages and backgrounds, some of them sitting, some standing about and talking in pairs or in small groups, and others dancing. The drink was free-flowing, the food plentiful, and the whole thing was far more relaxed and casual than she'd imagined it would have been.

Someone took their coats, and she suddenly felt very exposed in this dress. She crossed her arms over her chest and clutched her shoulders nervously. Being a girl was proving harder than she'd thought.

"Don't," he whispered, gently unfolding her arms. "You look lovely."

Her insides melted and she gave him a shaky smile; for half a second, it was just the two of them.

And then the moment, as so often happened, was ruined.

"Will! I didn't think you'd be here!"

They winced simultaneously and looked at each other, as if pleading with one another to _make him go away._

Allan burst between them, throwing an arm around Will, but at least having the common decency not to muss his hair or knock him over.

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?" He replied, prying his friend's arm off. "And couldn't you behave yourself? It's supposed to be a party, you know—it would be a shame, all things considered, if you forced me to _kill you."_

As usual, Allan just laughed the idle threat off. He looked very much a grown man tonight, nicely groomed and in a proper suit. He grew a goatee, as well, which Will and Djaq both thought looked silly, but he maintained the delusion that facial hair would make him irresistible to the opposite sex. Difficult to believe that their immature, boyish friend was growing up—she felt like a mother hen, just then.

"You don't mean that, mate," he said jovially, a big stupid smile on his face. She wondered if he'd gotten into the drink himself. He went to sling his arm back around his friend's shoulders, but Will moved and he missed, nearly falling forward. "That wasn't nice!"

Will just rolled his eyes. "So who're you here with?" He asked. "I thought you had some girl coming with you tonight."

"Naw—thought the better of it, didn't I? If I brought a girl, I'd have to just stick with her all night. This way, I'm prepared to graze the herd." He waved an arm around the room in a dramatic sweep, and then his eyes rested on Djaq, who'd been completely unnoticed until just now. "Well, hello, there, sweet," he purred with his broadest I-will-flirt-with-you-until-you-throw-a-glass-of-water-at-me smile.

"Very funny, Allan."

A look of surprise came to his face and for the first time since she'd known him, he was stunned into silence. But it was brief.

"Djaq? Our Djaq? Good lord, I didn't recognize you like that!" He stood back and planted his hands on his hips, taking a good look at her and nodding his approval. "You oughtta dress like a girl more often."

"Oh, I do, do I?"

"Just a thought."

"Oh, yes, cocktail-length dresses are very becoming for working hip-deep in the mud. I think that was in _Life_ magazine, with Catherine Hepburn."

He laughed. "You know, I wasn't sure it was _you_ 'til you said that. Only my Djaq would respond to a compliment like that."

A brief, flickering spark went through Will's eyes, but it vanished just as quickly as it appeared, before she could figure out what it meant.

"So, if our carpenter friend here'll allow it—how'd you like a dance?"

Djaq wasn't entirely familiar with the rules of teenage dating and courtship, but she could at least be _fairly_ sure that asking a friend's date for a dance was considered bad manners at best, and punishable by death and _really fucking rude_ at worst. She resisted the urge to reach out and shove him down.

"I do not know about Will—but I doubt you would do well dancing with me," she said. "I always lead."

The side of his mouth curled up in a jaunty grin. "That's my Djaq," he beamed. He then apparently spotted somebody behind her, because he promptly excused himself to go and chat with another girl.

"He is _very_ silly," she remarked, watching him. She turned to Will and found him glaring daggers after his friend. "Are you all right?"

"He has _cheek,"_ was all he said. If she didn't know better, she'd have thought he was actually _angry._

"It is just Allan," she said quietly. "You said it yourself, he is just an idiot. He cannot help himself."

"He _should."_

Now it seemed like he was angry _and_ jealous—which was very strange, in deed. The two of them were as close as brothers. The answer was somewhere in the back of her mind, tiny and persistent and irritatingly just out of reach.

"You cannot possibly be taking him seriously."

There was a long silence as he continued to stare, apparently thinking. All she could do was stand there and wait for him to come back to earth.

He sighed, then looked over at her and smiled; he held out a hand to her. "Dance with me? I won't mind if you lead."

That brief anger in his face was gone again—she thought on it for a moment and then tucked it away in her mind to think of at some other time, and forced herself to go _one_ night without analyzing absolutely everything she saw. She took his hand, and he twirled her about effortlessly.

She shouldn't have been surprised that he was a good dancer, but somehow she was. He was agile and graceful on his feet, his calloused and work-worn hands clasping hers ever so gently. He was unsure, shy; she could feel his hand shaking at her waist, as if he was frightened to put it there. Those beautiful eyes told her that he was just as much a bundle of nerves as she was.

At first her own steps were uncertain and hesitant; she hadn't danced at all since Djaq—the _real_ Djaq—died. He'd been her dance partner when they were younger and still learning. As she slowly re-introduced herself to it, it became easier—perhaps the only "girlish" thing she didn't find _impossible_ to do. It was an entirely different dynamic, dancing with somebody that she…

The unmistakeable sound of somebody being slapped drew her attention, reluctantly, away from Will and towards the source of the sound: Allan, it seemed, was not as smooth as he believed himself to be. He'd said something he apparently shouldn't have, and earned a well-deserved slap. The girl was walking away to join her friends as a dozen or so people stared at him.

They looked at Allan, and then at one another, then started snorting and trying to hold back fits of giggles, effectively breaking the nervous tension between them. She rested her forehead on his shoulder; he buried his face in her hair. Both of them quaked with silent laughter at their friend's expense.

Eventually, they had to stand off to the side, as they'd stopped dancing in order to stand there laughing at him. They leaned on the wall and laughed until their stomachs ached.

"It was not… even all that funny," she managed to choke out between giggles.

He was having an equally hard time speaking. "No, it wasn't."

"Then why are we laughing?"

"I have no idea," he squeaked before dissolving again in laughter.

They finally calmed down enough to stop laughing, and stood catching their breath. She looked up at him, smiling more than she had in ages, but when she saw his face, her breath caught in her throat. He looked… oddly intense. His cheeks were flushed, though whether it was from all the laughing, or something else, she didn't know.

And then it just—_happened_; she didn't realize until much later that she was the one who started it. Certainly it wasn't something she'd been thinking about at the time. The kiss shocked her—sweet and warm and utterly alien, the feel of his lips on hers sending off jolts of electricity all up and down her spine. Everything else became a vague and faraway background. It was just the two of them here.

Her hands grasped at the back of his jacket, worried that if she let go, she might fall on the floor; he kept his own hands around her arms.

She was the one to end the kiss. She backed away half a step, breathing heavily. He was standing there with his eyes closed, still trying to savour the kiss even after it had ended. She slowly reached up and pressed her fingertips to his cheek; his eyes snapped open and he caught her hand, not taking his eyes off of her. His expression looked dazed and dreamy.

"Will?"

He snapped out of his stupor and looked down at her with a huge grin on his face; his free hand touched her own face, cupping her cheek in his palm. He leaned down again, hesitantly at first, and pressed his lips against hers softly. She responded in turn, closing the space between them, bringing them once again flush against one another.

This was crazy, she thought. Here she was, standing in her employer's house at a party celebrating a holiday that she didn't even recognize, dressed like a girl for the first time in three years, kissing one of her best friends. It was ridiculous. It was absolutely _outrageous!_

And yet she didn't want it to end. She didn't care that anybody could see them and she didn't care how absurd it was. All she cared about was Will. Her stomach and chest fluttered happily and excitedly as his hands gently rested on her waist, as their kiss intensified.

Reluctantly, they parted, but remained close together with their foreheads touching and their arms looped around each other. They stayed like that for a long time, quietly oblivious to the scene around them.

Djaq vaguely registered a familiar song playing in the background as the knowledge of their current setting returned to her. She felt Will shift above her head, and felt his breath against her ear.

"Let's do it," he whispered along with the song playing in the background. "Let's fall in love."

"_That's why birds do it,  
_"_Bees do it,_  
"_Even over-educated fleas do it._  
"_Let's do it—let's fall in love."_

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Sorry about the chapter length. It sorta got out of hand. Actually, the second half of the chapter was the first part of the story that I thought up—the part that made me really decide that I wanted to write the whole thing. Originally, my choice of songs was "L-O-V-E" by Nat King Cole, but that song wasn't written until the 60s. So I settled for Cole Porter instead.

Djaq seems a bit uncharacteristically bashful for the second part of this chapter, but I swear there's a reason for it. The Christmas party would be the first time in years that she has been so obviously a girl, and it's with somebody she doesn't even realize she fancies. That would be a pretty scary for anybody.

The Prophet Yeshuah is the name in the Islamic faith for Jesus—in both 1940 and the canon setting, she would have been aware of him and his teachings through her own religion.

Sam Troughton, the actor that plays Much, is left handed. I couldn't help but put a bit of that into this chapter. Because it's true—the ink smudges. It's my nemesis.


	7. May, 1941

Forget insomnia. Summer is what's going to slowly kill me. Every year I suffer for five months of "ick", and every year I manage to forget how awful it is, and every year I'm _shocked_ to discover again that summer _sucks._ It's like when people's subconsciouses alter or all together obliterate memories of traumatic experiences. Or else my brain has been cooked by the heat like an overdone egg and is just a withered gray husk inside my skull. Both of these are equally plausible.

Disclaimer: Still don't own Robin Hood. Still breaking copyright laws. Still not any closer to tracking down Harry Lloyd and seducing him…

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**May, 1941**

"And then you just divide here—like this—and then isolate it here," she worked out the problem quickly across the table, writing the steps down as she did them. "That is all there is to it. It is quite easy, really, if you do it in small parts instead of trying to do everything at once. Use that pattern for every equation like this—if you do it out of order, it will not work. And even if it _does_ work out, the answer will be wrong."

The twelve-year-old sighed an enormously relieved sigh. "It's always so much _easier_ when you explain it to me. You should be my teacher—and then nobody'll have to go back to Ms Pembroke's class again."

Djaq laughed. "I do not think I could make a room full of twelve-year-olds pay attention to me. I have not got the patience."

Luke screwed up his face. "Well that's shit, isn't it?"

"Mind your language! Your father and your brother will throw fits if they hear you swearing like that!"

"Think they'll be afraid I'm teaching you bad words?"

A laugh burst from her before she roughly mussed the boy's hair with both hands. He could be so very different from his brother sometimes. "You are a _cheeky_ one. Where do you get it from?"

"I think God forgot to give Will his share of cheek, and didn't realize it until I came along. So he gave me both shares."

She folded her arms on the low table and laughed into them. Sometimes she really loved Luke, even thought of him as a sort of foster little brother. That wasn't so strange, though—after all, she _had_ been the older twin…

She was still laughing when she heard another person walk into the room.

"What did you do to her?"

"I didn't do anything. Maybe she just finds your presence funny."

She sat back up and smiled up at Will standing over them.

"Look, we're all done here, now, so can I _please_ go out?" The boy pleaded.

"All right, fine—go. Be back before seven," he ordered, standing to the side as his little brother streaked past him. The door slammed and he was off.

"He is certainly happy to be out of here," she remarked as she stretched her arms over her head.

He smiled slightly and sat down next to her. "I can't imagine why."

With him so close, her cheeks heated up and she felt the sudden urge to try and keep her hands busy—so she occupied herself stacking and sorting Luke's school papers. She still felt bashful around Will sometimes. There was simply no way they could have gone back to the status quo after the Christmas party. So they didn't. He certainly wasn't her _boyfriend—_at least, she didn't _think_ he was. Actually, she wasn't sure _how_ to classify it. A year ago, they were just "mates", like any other two boys; even after he found out her true sex, nothing really changed and they didn't stop being friends. She supposed that these days, they were still mates. Just… friends who happened to fancy one another and snuck off into dark corners where nobody could see them for a quick kiss.

To say that they were _just_ friends, though, was a gross understatement. To say that she was "just" friends with any of them—with Will, or Luke, Allan, Robin, or Marian—was a gross understatement. She'd never felt this close to any people before in her entire life. There was something special about their little group—something close-knit and very strong.

Most of the time, anyway.

It still puzzled her. Allan and Will were the closest of friends—like brothers—and yet something had happened between them that they weren't telling her about. They weren't letting it get in the way of their friendship, though; boys, she'd learned early in her life, did not let silly things get in the way of a life-long friendship. But there was something of a tentative and uneasy peace between them. Once again, the answer was tantalizingly just out of reach.

She'd often wondered if it was because she and Allan were constantly flirting, passing winks and silly grins and innuendo back and forth as a way of communicating. She never meant anything by it, and she'd laughed off the suggestion that Allan _did_ mean something by it; they were friends, and, anyway, it was all in good fun and Will couldn't really toss innuendo around without stuttering. He'd even told her that it didn't bother him, because Allan flirted with absolutely everybody, including his Auntie Annie when she came to visit some years ago.

Still, she knew it probably made him feel awkward, so she'd toned it down quite a bit.

And she _still_ had no idea what was going on between them. Eventually, she just consoled herself with the knowledge that if it were anything serious, they would tell her about it. Until then, it was their business and not hers.

"D'you have work this afternoon?" He asked her.

"Not today—it is my day off. Finally."

"Much works you pretty hard, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "I am his human adding machine—only he does not have to memorize some silly code to get an answer out of me."

In the year since she'd been working at Much's Place, she'd gone from being a part-time waitress to the unofficial bookkeeper. She was in charge of everybody's receipts and billpads and double-checked every paper that came through the place. She found the work much easier than waiting tables.

"But then," she sighed, leaning forward and hugging her knees. "I suppose it is all for the best. There is not a great deal of work for me to do at Robin's anymore."

"I guess it's hard to be the stablehand when there's so few horses left," he said quietly.

"It is, though I am doing my part by tending the garden and raising animals. He bought a _cow_ last month." She frowned. "I _hate_ cows."

She stood and pulled at her overalls to even them out—she rarely wore anything else unless she was at the restaurant—then reached her hand down to Will. He took it and let her pull him up, unfolding his long legs until he stood upright. He was _tall_ these days—a full head taller than his father, and most of it was leg. He stood nearly a head and shoulders above her, still holding her hand.

Instinctively, they both looked about to make completely sure that they were alone. He bent and gave her a quick peck on the lips; as he pulled away, Djaq shook her head, then stood on tiptoe to kiss him properly, sliding her tongue against his, one hand hooked through his t-shirt collar and the other on the back of his neck. He whimpered and scratched at the denim covering her back.

A sound in the front hall was all it took to remind them where they were, and they leaped apart as if someone placed a tightly wound spring in between them; when Dan Scarlett walked into the room, he found his son thumbing through a newspaper and his friend tucking a stack of school papers into a knapsack. If he noticed that his son's whole face was bright red and that he was holding the newspaper upside-down, he didn't say anything about it.

"William."

He looked up and tried to appear as casual as possible.

"I need an extra set of hands—you can come, too, Djaq," he added, waving the girl over. He also knew that she was a _she,_ but he still treated her exactly the same, including asking for her hands when he needed it.

"What with, Dad?"

"I finished the desk, but I need a few extra hands to help me load it onto the truck."

"Truck?" Djaq asked, walking over and being careful to leave at least an arm's length between herself and Will.

"I borrowed John Little's truck to make the delivery," he explained as he held the door open for them with one hand and ushering them outside with the other.

It took both father and son to carry the enormous and beautifully constructed desk from the shop next to the house; while they did this, Djaq took all of the drawers and wrapped them in brown paper to protect them on the drive, then loaded them into the truck's cab. As Will and Dan carried the desk up an improvised wooden ramp, Djaq stood on the bed of the truck and helped them centre it. She covered it with an old canvas tarpaulin, and the three of them tied the desk and tarp down to the truck for the journey.

"That wasn't so hard, lad, was it?" Dan asked. "Thank you both for your help."

"It was no trouble," Djaq replied.

Will just grunted.

"I shouldn't hold you up any longer, Djaq. I'm afraid…" he patted his clothes. "I'm afraid I haven't got any change on me at the moment—would it be all right if I paid you later?"

"That is all right," she said.

He nodded. "I've got to take this lovely piece of furniture to the University. I'm not sure how long I'll be gone."

"That's fine, Dad."

"I'll leave, now, so you can walk the lady home," he teased as he climbed into the truck.

"Dad!"

Dan laughed as the truck roared to life and took off.

Will put his face in his hands and grumbled to himself. "Why did he say that?"

"He is only teasing you," she said, nudging him with her shoulder.

"I _could_ walk you home, you know," he offered.

She smiled. "That would be nice."

He ruffled her hair; she gave him a playful shove. She loved how they sometimes behaved like children. It was refreshing, in a world at war where they were both forced to be adults most of the time. Then the silliness subsided, replaced by a comfortable quiet. He took her hand and their pace slowed.

They were both quietly in their own thoughts. She looked at their linked hands, sighing ever so quietly; he was eighteen, now. His last year at school was drawing to a close, and then he would be able to…

She couldn't stand to think of it. Allan still seemed set on joining the army to fight for his country, and he probably expected Will to go along with it like he'd said he would two years ago. He would be finished with school in July, as well, making it possible for him to enlist. That thought filled her with _dread._ She didn't want either of them going to war—but they were big boys, she reminded herself, and they could do as they liked.

Her thoughts continued to turn darker. Her job basically didn't exist anymore—all she was now was a farmhand, raising a garden and animals for her employer to supplement rations. She knew that she was costing Robin money. What she paid for rent and utilities in the little stablemaster's house didn't _nearly_ cover what he paid her to do her work. There were people, too, coming into and out of Robin's house all the time. They were always temporary residents, people who stayed with him for a few weeks at most, and they were never seen again. Obviously, something was going on—they weren't British and had no ration books, so most of what she grew or raised or collected on the farm was used to feed these people. She was told not to talk about them to anybody else, and she obeyed, though it seemed an odd request from Robin. But she'd learned years ago not to question a great deal of what he did—he always had his reasons.

They were a drain on his financial and other resources, moreso than she was. She knew, no matter how much she wanted not to think about it, that her time here was running short. She looked again at their joined hands, her dark fingers laced in his pale ones, and felt an enormous pang in her chest. She _refused_ to think about it. Not now.

The wind blew fiercely at their backs, whipping her hair around. She still kept it short, even though she didn't need to anymore, but it was still too long to be a boy's haircut. Leaves and bits of paper blew up the streets and floated in the air around them. A woman walking on the other side of the road squealed as she tried to control her flyaway skirt.

"Your father seemed very anxious about his desk," she remarked as they side-walked down the hill into the barnyard.

"Yeah—he's been working on it for weeks. It's for one of the English Literature professors at Nottingham Trent."

"He is proud of this?"

"Well… he never had the chance to go to university, did he? I s'pose he thinks that if he can do something that the professors will be impressed by, that maybe it'll mean his work means something. Maybe."

Her head boggled in disbelief. "Dan is one of the most talented artisans I have ever met! He can hardly believe his work is less simply because of that."

"He doesn't, not always. Sometimes he has his moments." He smiled at her. "But he'll be happy, knowing you think so highly of him."

"I should tell him, then."

Instead of taking his hand again at the bottom of the hill, she jammed hers into her pockets as they walked the aisles in the barn. Only four horses remained, those that Robin loved the best; the rest had been sold to people who could better care for them. The sounds of the remaining horses mixed with the braying of a lone cow, the two goats, and the chickens and ducks, who had had a population explosion. Robin was starting to give away pairs of birds to people who needed the eggs.

The paddock was divided into sections for the various animals, with fences that Will had built himself. A flock of little white ducks in a large shed paddled around in a huge, shallow metal tub full of water. Will easily scaled the fence.

"It's a little farm, isn't it?" He asked as he knelt to pick up one of the ducks, cradling the bundle of white feathers in his arms. "Kinda cute. Quaint."

"Smelly," she supplied, kneeling next to him. "But, it is either this or go hungry. I can put up with the stink for food." She stroked the little duck with two fingers before taking it from him and putting it back in the pen.

"I thought Robin let you keep what you needed from the garden and eggs."

She shrugged. "With all of those mouths to feed…" she began, without thinking. Then her eyes went wide and she cleared her throat.

"'Mouths'?"

"Nothing."

He frowned, but didn't push it.

Djaq picked up a canvas bag from the fence post outside the duck's pen. Will followed her into the shed where the ducks roosted, and watched her gather eggs.

"Hush, little one," she crooned softly at an angrily squabbling duck as she reached into her nest and took her eggs. "I know you do not like it, and I am sorry." She switched back and forth between English and Arabic, talking in hushed, lilting tones in an attempt to soothe the birds as she gathered eggs.

"They don't like that, do they?"

She walked out of the shed and came to perch on the fence next to where he stood. "No, they don't," she said. "I feel a little sorry for taking them."

"But you've got to eat."

"There is that."

They stood and sat in silence, looking around the farmyard at the animals and the green-brown paddocks, and at the houses and patchwork of green beyond. Will closed his eyes and lolled his head back, letting the sunshine warm his face; she held the egg bag in one hand and kept the other on the fence to keep herself balanced, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The wind picked up, tossing his dark hair from side to side.

The sky was a clear, striking blue, streaked with long spotty clouds. It was warm and cozy out here in the sun, but the wind cooled what the sun baked. Apart from the animals and the wind, there were no sounds. Only quiet. At times like this, it seemed like their little slice of England was isolated—that the whole world, and everything wrong with it, the war and _everything_ were all a million miles away from them.

"This place is not always loveable, but it is beautiful sometimes," she breathed. "I should hate to leave it."

His eyes snapped open and he straightened, looking at her with a very confused expression on his face. She immediately wished she hadn't said anything; it'd just slipped out.

"Leaving? Where are you going?"

She hung her head. "You already know that Robin no longer needs me—I do not provide any money for him paying for my room, and he is losing money paying me to tend his little farm. I am a burden."

"Robin wouldn't care—"

"_I_ care."

"But you don't have to leave Nottingham," he protested, turning to face her, tilting her head up so he could look into her eyes, shining like black gems. "You could even stay here—he'd let you."

"It does not make sense to stay in the stable-master's house when I am no longer working here. And—" she cut herself off before saying that her employer could use the space for all of the people he kept taking into his house. She couldn't stay here, not when she was of no use and her little baby house could have been useful. "I could not stay here," she reiterated.

Panic played clearly on his face. "But… you could find another place to stay! I'm sure that—"

"It is still expensive."

He gripped the fence slat until his knuckles ran white. He didn't want her to leave—she _couldn't_ leave. What would he do without her? After getting used to having her about, he was terrified how he'd cope. It'd be just him and Allan again…

He felt her hand on his cheek, small and warm; he put his own over it, noting how perfectly it seemed their hands fit together. She simply could _not_ leave. What he felt for her was not simply teenage puppy love, no. The words began to burble to his lips.

"Djaq, I—"

A terrible scream interrupted him, the sound of dozens of angry wailing sirens cutting through the calm of the afternoon. The animals spooked, running or flying around in circles as they panicked at the noise. Djaq and Will looked at one another with wide eyes and terrified expressions; both of them knew those sirens.

"Air raid!" She yelled, trying to make herself heard over the noise. She leaped off the fence, and he followed her, starting to make a run for the house on the other side of the stables.

"Djaq, come on!" He bellowed when he noticed she wasn't following him.

"I have to get the animals inside! Help me, it will go quicker—"

"No! There's no time!"

"I can't—"

"_Djaq!"_ He grabbed her hand roughly and pulled her away from the terrified animals as he ran.

"You stupid German pig-dogs!" She screamed, looking up and tearing her hand away from his to shake her fist into the air as if the planes, little black spots in the distance, could hear her. "You cowards! If you have something to say, grow some _bollocks _and come down here and say it to my face!"

He didn't know whether he wanted to laugh or yell at her. He settled for yelling.

"Now is not the time! C'mon, hurry!" He grabbed her hand again and pulled her along.

She followed as closely behind him as she could, struggling to keep up as his long legs carried him easily over the ground. The sirens were deafening, her lungs burned, her heart pounded, and her mind raced frantically. The combination of everything made her dizzy and oddly giddy with nerves from the rush of adrenaline. She kept a hold of him all the way up the shallow slope and across the garden to the big house's back garden and the trapdoors leading to the old cellar.

Will dropped her hand and wrenched the wooden doors open.

"Get in!" He commanded. Instead of waiting for her to do as he told, he grabbed her arm and threw her into the cellar. He followed quickly, pulling the doors closed behind him and landing with a graceless crash in a heap next to her as she was just getting to her feet. Even down here, the sound of the blaring sirens was easily heard.

She reached down and helped him up. "Are you all right?" She panted.

He nodded. "Fine. Nothing broken. You?"

"I am fine," she assured.

"I didn't mean to be so rough…"

"Who's there?" A man's voice asked from somewhere deeper in the cellar. A figure approached them, carrying an old lantern. It was Robin.

"It's just us—Will, and Djaq. We heard the sirens…"

"You were the nearest shelter," Djaq explained.

Robin nodded, gesturing for them to follow him. "Come on, this way."

He led them into the large chamber in the middle of the cellar. It was well-stocked, with tins and boxes of food on shelves lining the walls, along with dozens of bottles of water; blankets and pillows were piled in another corner; there were lanterns, too, lining a shelf. Another area was dedicated to things that would keep the occupants busy during their stay in the bunker, with things like board games and books. They could probably have lived comfortably down here for two weeks.

Another shelf looked back at them, staring—a row of civilian-grade gas masks were lined up on top of a cabinet, watching their every move. She felt the littlest shiver course through her as she caught sight of them. She hated the way gas masks looked; they were hideous and made everybody wearing one sound like some kind of alien-robot monster.

It seemed there were several people who were closest to Robin's air raid shelter: Marian was there, and so was Much, and two people that she recognized as housekeepers, and—

"Allan?" Will asked, trying to get a better look at his friend.

"Hey there," he said with his trademark smirk. "I was in the area and I thought I'd come and see our Djaq. Then those bloody fucking sirens went off, so I ran in here." He folded his hands behind his neck and looked around the place. "Not too bad, is it?"

"It beats being dead," Will grunted. He was trembling something awful, panting, his heart pounding. The fear and fatigue, banished temporarily as they ran for their lives across the property, caught up to him and fell on him all at once. He leaned back against the wall behind him.

Above them, the familiar sound of aeroplane engines descended on them, like a nightmarish swarm of bees. Three heads turned up to look at the ceiling, waiting. They didn't expect they were in much great danger where they were—the German air force wasn't going to waste time or bombs on a rural residential area when there were heavily populated urban ones elsewhere—but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"What've you got there, Djaq?" Robin asked. None of them had heard him walk up.

"Huh?" She looked around and then realized that she was still clutching the bag of eggs she'd collected just a few minutes earlier. She hadn't even realized she still had it. A quick inspection revealed that, somehow, none of them were broken. "Duck eggs," she said. "Eight of them."

"Determined to pay me back for holding you in my shelter, are you?" The man teased. Then he got serious again. "We can eat these first before we have to switch to egg powder."

Djaq made a face. Egg powder was vile—yellowish "dehydrated egg" that was supposed to be indiscernible from fresh eggs but that tasted not unlike damp cardboard. She handed the bag over to him.

"Let's just hope we are _not_ stuck down here long enough for us to go through all of these eggs, then."

"You three might want to get comfortable," he suggested as he took the bag. "It'll be a while before we get the all-clear."

There was a loud shriek outside, and then an explosion. The ground above their heads rumbled from the impact of the bomb. Will, Allan, and Djaq all clutched at each other in fear. Then there was another explosion, and another. With every _BANG!_ that rang from the outside, they closed the distance between them until they were just one big lump, desperately clinging to one another. They stayed in that huddle as they shuffled, careful not to step on each other's feet, over to where Marian was setting up mattresses for people to sit on.

"I take it you're a little bit scared?" She asked redundantly when she saw them.

"Naw—I'm not scared of nothin'," Allan said nonchalantly, though his voice was muffled because he had his face buried in Will's shoulder. "But these two, now, _they're_ shaking in their boots, they are!"

"Uh-huh," she said slowly, not believing him for a second. "Is Djaq in there with you? She must be—I can see red trainers."

She wriggled a bit and poked her head out between her friend's shoulders. "I am right here."

"Can you breathe all right in there, or do I need to get you an air hose?"

"I think I am all right," she said before disappeared back between Will and Allan.

The trio pushed two mattresses together and tried to make themselves as comfortable as possible and ignore the explosions aboveground. The bombings had never been this close before; it was shocking how quickly they'd gone from the blissful feeling of being far away from the war, to being right in the middle of it.

Robin and Marian were off in another corner of the cellar, standing close and talking to one another in hushed tones. Much was playing chess with one of the housekeepers. The other housekeeper, a middle-aged woman, sat quietly in her chair and knitted. She was the only person there who wasn't completely terrified of what was occurring just over their heads; she must have gone through something like this before.

Allan broke away from them briefly and found a pack of cards on the shelf where the "entertainments" were stashed. He demanded that they try and do something to keep their minds off of their situation, told jokes and ridiculous stories, tried everything he could to distract them all so his friends would laugh.

It had the desired effect, at least—after a time, they settled down and got into a lively game of Snap, laughing and talking about being outright silly, like they usually were.

That was the wonderful thing about Allan, though. He was good at making people forget, and laugh, even just for a little while.

"Snap!" Djaq yelled, slapping both hands down on the pile of cards. Her friends followed suit, all of them trying to get their hands on the cards. It quickly degenerated into a play-fight, and then just a pile.

"Only the three of you could turn a simple card game into a contact sport," Marian remarked as she came by, shaking her head.

"Makes it more interesting!" Allan said, grinning, from the top of the heap.

"My hand is squashed," Will whimpered. "I think somebody's sitting on it."

"I do not feel anything," Djaq said, the poor soul at the bottom of the pile. "Try moving it."

A second later, the girl squeaked and jumped as much as her position would allow.

"Sorry!"

"Can we please get up now?" She begged. "The two of you are crushing me."

"I can't get up until Allan does."

"Allan, get up—I am losing all of the feeling in my backside!"

"Well, _I'm_ perfectly comfortable up here."

"Let them up!" Marian commanded, in that stern I-am-not-taking-shit-from-anybody voice that was known to send even _Robin_ scurrying off in the other direction. Allan promptly rolled off of them; Will got up next, helping Djaq to sit up.

She squeaked, rubbing her ribs as each one popped back out from the release of pressure. Then she looked at the pile of playing cards. "I think I won that round, as I was the only person in actual physical contact with the cards."

"I was second—that means Allan has to take 'em all."

"So I cracked a rib, but I do not have to take all of the cards!"

"You two are crap!" He said as he gathered them up and shuffled them into his own pile.

The mood was light and cheerful, despite being several feet underground in a cellar while the Luftwaffe was above them, possibly reducing all of Nottingham to a little pile of rocks.

_CRASH!_

Another bomb; they immediately forgot about their card came and latched onto each other again, eyes wide and terrified. The elderly housekeeper barely looked up from her knitting. Marian startled, dropping her book on the floor. Robin sat in a corner, quietly chain-smoking, an activity he did only under severe stress. Much had completely lost interest in his chess game and sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, whimpering like a little girl.

"It's getting closer," the cook squeaked. "They're going to start dropping bombs on our houses next!"

"Much, be quiet," Robin growled. "We don't need this right now."

"But what it something happens? What if—" his face paled and he turned around. "What if they bomb the house and something lands on the doors outside? We'll be trapped down here! We'll just be trapped and go through all the food, and then we'll have to start deciding who's going to die first and be reduced to cannibalism and—"

"Shut up, Much!" His chess partner shouted.

"But it's possible!" He whimpered.

"Please, just _shut up!"_ Robin hissed again, putting his cigarette out and promptly lighting another. "We're already scared enough, we don't need _you_ here making it worse."

He obeyed—if only partially. He just sat on the floor, rocking back and forth in a fetal position, hyperventilating. They could vaguely hear him reciting the Lord's Prayer. This was overdramatic, even for Much.

Marian apparently had enough of this and stormed over to him. She hit him on the head with her book and picked him up by his shirt collar.

"_Act like a MAN you snivelling NINNY!"_ She screamed, rattling him around.

Much's eyes went wide and his mouth hung open in shock; he maintained this expression even after she dropped him back on the floor and went back to the mattress on the floor where she was sitting before.

But at least he was _quiet._

"Thank you," Robin sighed, leaning towards her.

"Don't you dare kiss me after you've been smoking. You taste like a badly tuned automobile."

The bombs were going off again, although not as close this time. Will, Djaq, and Allan were still in their tight little huddle.

"I wonder if my Dad and Lukey are all right," Will mused quietly.

"They're probably fine," Allan assured. "University's got loads of shelters and those buildings are built to last."

"And people are always making sure that young children are safe during air raids," Djaq piped up. "Luke is safe."

There was quiet above ground for several minutes before they all felt safe enough to let each other go. They'd been assured that they would eventually grow used to the bombs and they wouldn't notice it anymore, but none of them liked the idea that they would _actually_ get _used_ to this. She sincerely hoped that it would all be over before that time came.

The all-clear didn't sound; they all kept themselves busy and tried not to think about what could possibly be going on above them. Much made everybody some food on a hot plate—scrambled eggs and potatoes and toast.

Eventually, it dawned on everybody that they were going to have to spend the night down here, and one by one they began to drop off to sleep.

"Look at 'em," Robin whispered, looking down at the pile of teenagers. They were fast asleep, snuggled up close together in a tangle of arms and legs—Will on the right, Allan on the left, and Djaq sandwiched in between them like a shared cuddly toy.

"What about it?" Marian asked back.

"I've seen litters of kittens that don't share this kind of bodily contact."

She draped a blanket over them. "I think it's sweet."

"Of course you do, my love." He looped an arm around her shoulders from behind her and kissed her cheek.

"Robin…"

"Mm?"

"You smell like an ashtray."

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

So… what was the point of this chapter? You'll see. I'd already planned to make this particular part of the story two chapters, because it's going to take a bit of telling. Before you all get cross with me for showing Robin as a smoker—_everybody_ up until about the 1960s smoked. Absolutely _everybody._ I imagine that WWII Robin would just do it socially, or when he was seriously stressed out. Like now.

I'm officially giving up on controlling my chapter lengths. THIS MISSION IS FUTILE. Long-windedness is my curse. Ugh…

I love you guys for reviewing—but more than that, I love that you're reading!


	8. A Period of Adjustment: May, 1941

I'm doing something a bit new with this chapter—it actually (gasp!) picks up right where the previous chapter left off. You get two chapters this weekend because this one and the previous one go together—I'd tried to write them as one chapter instead of two, but wordiness got in the way and I had to go with my original plan and write two. This one is a bit late because I was running through doing last-minute edits. You'd be amazed how many typos I missed the first time around…

Disclaimer: The BBC's Robin Hood is not my property. This upsets me.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**May, 1941**

**After the Nottingham Blitz**

"Will, get up! All of you! Come on! Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

All three of them were shaken awake in turn, one after the other, until they all sat up. None of them remembered right away where they were.

"Whaaat?" Will groaned. "C'mon, Dad, I just want ten more minutes."

Then he remembered—he wasn't at home. He was in Robin's cellar, on two adjoined mattresses, asleep with his friends. He felt groggy and stiff.

"Will, this is important!" It was Robin, looking drawn and tired and not terribly reassuring.

"What's wrong?" He croaked.

"It's your father. The University—it was hit during the raid. Marian phoned and—just get up."

His brain kicked into high gear and whirled with possibilities. He kicked the blanket off and pulled his shoes on.

"What about—?"

"I'll send them along—just get up. I'll drive you."

No more encouragement was needed. Something was horribly, horribly wrong. He knew it.

He ran two at a time up the cellar stairs that led into the house itself, Robin following close behind him. The speeding ride to the hospital, being led through the building by a nurse he didn't know—it all passed in a blur. The place was packed with the victims of this most recent attack, some of them only slightly hurt, and others being rushed into surgery. The next thing he became acutely aware of was his father, still and bloodied on the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed. Bloody bandages were wrapped about his head, and over one eye; an enormous, blood-soaked pad was wrapped around the stump where his left hand had been.

The young man stood next to the bed, his eyes wide and terrified. Every muscle in his body trembled in rage and fear. His heart thudded loudly in his ears. It just didn't seem real—seeing his father, the strongest man he knew, so badly injured and so frail, so close to death.

It was surreal. Alien. He felt like something completely impossible had just happened—and in truth it had. He'd never dreamed, not in a million years, that something like this could happen to his father.

He couldn't stand to look at him anymore, and stepped out of the room to sit on one of the benches in the hallway. He put his head between his knees and tried to keep himself calm. The sound of female voices from around the corner caught his attention.

"I'll take him, Emily."

"But they left him with me."

"It's all right—they know me. And he needs to see."

"It might be too much."

"It's all right. Here, come with me."

"If you're sure…"

The footsteps rounded the corner; Marian appeared, dressed for work and leading Luke by the hand. Will nearly fell on his little brother, wrapping his arms around him and holding him tightly in his shaking arms.

"Will, what's going on?" The boy pleaded. "They won't tell me anything. They just said something happened to Dad, and…"

His heart pounded and he looked pleadingly at Marian. He didn't know what to do, or how to tell him what'd happened. She nodded and put her arm around the younger boy's shoulder.

"Luke, your father… is hurt. The doctors are taking him into surgery in a few minutes."

"What happened to him?"

"He was making his delivery when the air raid started. He… he was in the part of the campus that was destroyed."

"_Where is my Dad?"_ He begged, his voice cracking.

"This way," she said softly, opening the door to the room.

"Dad!" Luke sobbed, breaking away from Will and standing next to the bed where his father lay, motionless, covered in those awful bloody bandages. "Dad, please get up! Dad!"

"Lukey…" Will came to stand behind him, his hands on his shoulders.

"Don't," Marian whispered. "Just let him."

He nodded.

"Dad, come on! You'll be all right! You… you survived the Great War! And the depression! You can't let a bunch of flying sissies get you! Dad! Please…" He clutched his father's shirt in his hand and just collapsed, sobbing uncontrollably.

Marian tugged on Will's sleeve, taking him over to the far side of the room where her words would not be overheard by the young boy.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Will," she said in hushed tones. "The damage is extensive. Even if he survives the surgery—he won't be the same. He's lost an eye, and a hand. And the brain damage could be worse than you could possibly cope with."

"What're his chances?"

"Do you want me to be your friend, or your nurse?"

"Do your job."

She took a deep breath. "Not good. The doctors say less than fifty percent."

The bottom of his stomach dropped out completely and an enormous knot formed in his throat. He looked over to where Luke was still sitting by the bed, sobbing into their father's chest.

"And even if he does survive… you may need to hospitalize him."

"For how long?"

She shook her head, and the realization fell upon him. This was a no-win situation, no matter how he looked at it. His father was either going to die, or be in hospital care for the rest of his life—or be unable to work, with only one hand and one eye.

"I can't tell Luke."

"You have to let him know. You can't just pretend that everything's going to be all right, when you know what the outcome is going to be."

He nodded slowly.

"The doctors will be coming soon. If there's anything you want to say, I can mind Luke for you for a few minutes."

"Thanks."

"Luke," she said, putting out her hand. "Oh, you poor thing. Come here, let's find you some tissues…"

She led the crying boy away, leaving Will alone in the room with his father.

He didn't move, just stayed by the window where Marian broke the news to him. He took one tentative step forward, then another.

"Dad?" He whispered, as if he could hear the words. "It's me. Will. I know… I know you can't hear me, but…" He reached down and took his hand, breathing shakily. He could feel the pulse in his wrist, the last sign that the man still lived. "I'm sorry, for everything I ever did. I know I wasn't always the best I could've been. And I know we didn't always see eye-to-eye on everything. Sometimes we didn't see eye-to-eye on anything."

He took a deep, shaking breath, the knot in his throat growing.

"I love you, Dad. And… if you die…"

Tears spilled down his face and he sniffled, pulling the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his eyes.

"Tell Mum hello for me."

"Will?"

He turned to see that Marian had the door open just enough to poke her head in.

"The doctors are here. It's time."

He took a deep breath and steeled himself. "Will they let Luke say goodbye?" He asked.

"Of course they will."

Hours passed; he sat in silence with Luke outside of the little room, playing cards with the pack he'd taken from Robin's bomb shelter. He sorely wished he'd had a pack of cigarettes as well, even though he didn't even smoke. He was just desperate for something to calm his nerves.

Lukey's reaction to the news was much different than he'd expected. Perhaps he'd expended all of his tears crying over the initial shock. Maybe he'd actually expected that their father would die and hearing it as a fact wasn't as terrible. Or maybe he was in _so_ much shock that he couldn't process the situation. Whatever the reason, his little brother only nodded dumbly when Will told him that there was a good chance that their father wouldn't survive. They'd cried together for a little while before they decided that shedding tears would do nothing but depress themselves, and they began playing a card game instead.

But all he really wanted to do right now was fall on the floor and scream, cry, throw fits—the world wasn't fucking _fair._ His best friend was going to enlist in the army, possibly to be killed hundreds of miles from home; the girl of his dreams was about to pick up and leave Nottingham, too proud to take a place to stay for nothing; the world around him was _completely_ fallen apart; and, on top of _all of this,_ he was about to lose his father. The only thing he could possibly do that made any sense at all was sob.

But he didn't. He kept his emotions in check, and refused to break down. He had to keep a brave front for Luke.

He heard the two sets of footsteps in the silent hallway before he saw the two figures round the corner and come running over.

"Will!"

Allan and Djaq.

"You all right, mate? Marian told us you were here and—"

Djaq gave him a firm elbow in the ribs to shut him up.

"I'm well enough, I guess," he said, moving over so his friends could sit down. He would have to wait until Luke was elsewhere—maybe the loo or something—before he could tell them the truth. "How's everything else? Robin's place?"

"A mess," she admitted. "There is a crater in the middle of the paddock the size of a swimming pool, the stables are half collapsed, and the fence is blown away—but the house is fine and none of the animals died."

"We just spent the last three hours cleaning the place up," Allan added. "Word 'round town is, the Germans don't have good aim 'cos they missed most everything."

"Thank goodness," he sighed, despite himself.

"Will," Luke tugged his sleeve. "Will, I'm a bit peckish. Can we get something to eat here?"

"Huh? Yeah, all right," he said, feeling every joint in his body creak as he stood up. "C'mon."

"Want me to take him?" Allan offered. "You look like you need a rest."

"No, it's all right…"

"Allan! Djaq!" Marian came running around the hall corner and saw them there. "You can't come in here without signing in! The head nurse will have fits if she finds out I let you get past me!" She handed them two tags marked "VISITOR" in big red letters. "You shouldn't even be in here, Djaq. You're not eighteen."

"Just lie for me, all right?"

"Where are you going, Will?" She asked, turning her attention back to the young cabinetmaker.

"Luke's hungry."

"Well, here—I'm on my lunch break, so I'll see if I can get him a bite to eat in the nurse's canteen. I'll have someone bring you some sandwiches."

"Thank you, Marian," he breathed.

His friends sat on either side of him, a hand each on his shoulders. They watched as Marian took Luke away, and waited a few moments longer before either of them said anything.

"So, how is your father?" Djaq asked in hushed tones.

"Is he gonna be all right?"

Will put his elbows on his knees and folded his hands in front of him, tapping his lips gently with his fingertips. "He's… Marian told me that…"

It all burbled up to the surface, all at once. He heaved a breath and suddenly he was crying, his hands raking angrily through his hair.

"He's going to die!" He sobbed into the nearest shoulder. It was Allan's. "Marian told me that he was probably going to die. He lost his left hand and an eye—and—and—oh, God…"

He just collapsed against Allan, sobbing uncontrollably now. He was shocked at first, then slowly looped his arms around his old friend and hugged him tightly. Djaq kept one hand on his shoulder and the other clutching his arm, warm and steady and comforting. They sat there, quiet, not saying a word and letting him cry until he ran out of tears.

"You realize… you realize if he dies, Luke and I'll be orphans?" A bitter, angry laugh escaped him. "God… an orphan. At my age, I'm worried about being an orphan."

"It does not matter how old you are," Djaq said firmly. "If somebody you love dies, you might as well be a child."

"What'll… what'll happen to Luke, if he…" but here Allan trailed off, not wanting to finish the sentence himself.

"Well… I'm eighteen, aren't I? I'm his guardian, now," he was talking as if it'd already happened. "I've got to take care of him."

He wiped his eyes on his shirt again. His throat and chest tingled from crying so hard, and his whole body shook. Were it not for them, he had no idea what he would do.

"Excuse me?"

They all looked up to see a man in doctor's scrubs and a mask hanging around his neck standing before them, a clipboard in one hand. The white scrubs were stained all up the front with blood.

"Is one of you William Scarlett?" He asked, looking at the paper on his clipboard.

"I'm Will Scarlett," he said, standing up. His friends stood close to him on either side. "Is it my father?"

"Would you care to come with me, young man?" He asked, eyeing Allan and Djaq suspiciously. "I don't think this is the sort of thing to reveal in mixed company."

"They're my friends, sir. I would… I'd like to have them with me."

"Very well then." He cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, son. Your father… didn't make it. He died fifteen minutes ago."

The world came crashing down.

"I'm so, so sorry…"

o…o

The next few weeks passed by in a blur. The funeral was the day after Dan Scarlett died—Will could hardly remember any of it, except that he hadn't even cried when they put his father in a box in the muddy ground. People were sending the boys flowers and bringing meals over for them, offering their sympathies and helping around the house—often without being asked. Luke walked about in a daze, going through the motions of life without apparently being aware of any of it. They'd both been out of school since it happened, their schoolmates bringing work home for them to do so that they wouldn't fall too far behind.

He'd decided more or less immediately that he had to make as clean a break as possible, and began cleaning out his father's room just days after the funeral. He packed suits and clothes in decent shape into boxes, picking out items here and there that he could get a use out of himself. The rest would go into storage for a while, until he could work out what he wanted to do with them. He moved most of the things out of his father's old room, but he couldn't stand the idea of sleeping in there himself. Instead, he cleaned out the drafting office and moved everything into the shop next door, like he'd planned on doing for years, in preparation for making it into a room. But he couldn't bear to move into it, not while his little brother was still so frightened.

Secretly, he'd been in contact with his mother's sister, Anne Hamilton—Auntie Annie—and talked to her about taking Luke for a few months while he sorted himself out. He felt so unstable, so shaky—he didn't think he'd be able to take care of _himself_ all alone, let alone his baby brother. He hadn't told Luke yet. He wasn't sure how he was going to break it to him. But he knew it was best for him, for now. He'd be safer in Scarborough, as well—nobody would drop a bomb on the sleepy little holiday town.

He hauled the last of the boxes containing the last of his father's things into the attic and closed the hatch, feeling oddly relieved that the task was done at last.

The house felt strange and empty, lifeless.

Something was missing.

He sat heavily on the stairs, his head in his hands. He'd given Luke some money so that he could go to the cinema, just to get the boy out of the house. He'd told him to see something funny, and stay as long as he liked.

There was a gentle knock at the door; he looked up in time to see it open, and a small dark head poke through.

"Hi," Djaq said shyly. "You said I did not have to wait for you to answer the door anymore…"

"That's fine. Come in."

She walked the rest of the way in and closed the door. She had a basket covered with a towel on her hip.

"They are, um…" she lifted the corner of the towel, and an orange bill poked out. "Ducks. Robin thought you might need the eggs."

He smiled weakly. "Thanks. You can leave 'em in the old rabbit hutch outside until I can build a place to keep them." He stood up to show her into the back garden, where she carefully placed the birds into the hutch with a dish of water and some bread.

"So—how are you doing?" She asked cautiously.

"As well as can be expected, I suppose."

"Allan and I—we are always about, if you ever need anything."

His heart sank at the statement which was _supposed_ to reassure him.

"Not for much longer, though," he growled bitterly, surprising even himself with his harsh tone. He should have been grateful for her company—and he was—but somehow he felt prepared to loose venom on her.

It seemed like she knew what he meant by this. "Will…"

"Why're you still so dead-set on leaving?" He demanded. He didn't give her time to answer. "Why can't you stay?"

"I already told you," she said gently. "I can no longer stay with Robin, and I cannot afford another place to stay. It will be cheaper for me to live elsewhere, instead of in Nottingham."

"No, it won't. You're just _stubborn,"_ he hissed. "You won't take help from _anybody._ You're too proud and too stubborn and you… you don't believe that people can just do things because they _like you._ It always has to be some ulterior motive with you, doesn't it?"

He didn't know why he was yelling at her. He wasn't really angry with her—or, not nearly as angry as he was letting on. But all of the anger and frustration and sadness, all matter of unpleasant emotion that had built up over the last few weeks were boiling over and gnashing at his stomach, unleashing on the nearest target: Djaq.

She stiffened against his onslaught, but kept herself in check. "You cannot pretend you know why I do things. I do not like charity because it makes me feel useless. I would rather be my own man."

"You plan on going back to that again? Wrapping yourself up, pretending you're your brother?" He stood right in front of her, staring her down; she crossed her arms and stood her ground. "It's not gonna work. It didn't trick me completely, and it didn't trick Allan, and it won't trick anybody else."

"I have no choice—"

"_Everything's_ a choice!"

"Not for me! Being a boy is a shield, and without a family my options are limited. Did you ever stop, think of what might have happened to me if I had not been a boy when I was? Do you realize what I would be forced to do?"

"You always think that, but you don't know that for sure!"

"It certainly is true," she hissed. "It is not worth it to me to take that chance."

"You act like you're being kicked out—you have more options than you realize! Why are you being so _stupid_ about all of this?"

Before he realized what'd happened, stars exploded behind his eyes and he stumbled backwards, covering his right eye with one hand and trying to catch himself on the furniture with the other. He opened his other eye just in time to see the young woman storming out of the room, and he heard the front door slam hard after her.

He stood, stunned, for a long time, trying to figure out what had just occurred. He and Djaq fought; he hadn't meant to be so harsh with her, but he just couldn't stop talking once the words started. He obviously hurt her feelings.

And then she _hit_ him.

Gingerly, he touched around his eye, yelping at the pain. He ran into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. A big, reddish bruise was already starting to form there. He splashed water on his face, then stood staring at himself. He hardly even recognized the man that looked back at him. What was _wrong_ with him?

He used a bread knife to chop a small corner from the block of ice beneath the icebox, then wrapped it in a towel and settled down on the sofa with the chunk of ice on his eye, hoping he could keep the swelling down. Djaq threw a _mean_ punch.

After a few minutes, he drifted off to sleep.

The rude awakening came in the form of a rough jolt, being picked up by his shirt and pulled into a sitting position.

"Rise'n shine, sleepyhead!" Allan declared, letting him go.

"Whuh?"

"Whoa—geez, she wasn't kidding."

"Huh?" He was still trying to wake himself up.

"Djaq said she hit you. She _really_ wasn't kidding. Good lord."

"That all you came here for?"

"No, actually, I came here to yell at you, but I'm kinda thinking the better of it now. I don't think you need any more beatings."

Will grunted quietly. "She told you, then?"

"Of course she did. Tell me, Will, where d'you get off yelling at that poor girl like that?"

"Come off it, Allan."

"No, I don't think I will. You're not the only guy what cares about her, you know—if you even care about her at all."

"You know I do."

"Oh? You've got a funny way of showing it. I'd never've done that to her!"

All he did in reply was snort.

"Whatever happened to you, eh? It's like you're a whole 'nother person. We were mates, we were gonna go off and enlist together—"

"I am _not_ enlisting," he growled, voicing the opinion he'd been holding silently for years. "Not with you, not with anybody. I don't wanna do it."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really—and don't give me that goddamned look. I _never_ wanted to join the army. You just always _assumed_ that I would, without ever really asking me. I don't even know why _you're_ doing it—no, wait. Yes I do."

"Oh _really?"_ His friend's tone practically _dared_ him to continue.

"Yeah, _really,"_ he snapped back. "It's all a part of this… this _childish_ need you have to be the centre of attention. You just want the glory."

"Is that what you think this is about?"

"It isn't?" He asked flippantly, in a tone of voice he knew would drive Allan up the walls.

"You think fighting for my country is 'childish'? You think you're so much better than me?"

"Let's just say I outgrew it, all right? My priorities are different. I've got plenty of things that I'm needed for _right here._ I need to be the grownup now."

"You _outgrew_ it?" He asked. "What else you think you've outgrown in three weeks, eh? School, friends, ambition—what about Djaq, eh? You outgrow her, as well?"

"You leave her out of this!" He went right up to him, face-to-face, taking on a fighting stance.

"Too late for that, isn't it? You already brought her into this when you let yourself get all fucking _stupid_ about everything. You think you need to change? You think you're so different? Well let me tell you something, William Scarlett—you're not the first kid in the world to have lost his parents and you're _sure as fuck_ not gonna be the last!"

He leaped at him with a savage roar, taking his shirt in his hands and shaking him violently. His friend grabbed at him, started tossing him back and forth. They struggled, rolling around on the floor and throwing one another around the room, each of them trying to work out their frustrations on the other. Allan started trying to get away, to hold him back, but Will kept coming after him in a blind fury. Eventually, he had no choice but to pick him up by the shirt collar and back him into a wall. He slammed Will's head back against it—once, twice, three times.

"Stop it! Just _stop this,_ all right?" He yelled, staring into his face and keeping him pinned in place. "You do whatever the hell you want to do! But don't sit there and pretend you know _exactly_ what my thinking is. D'you know why I wanna go fight? _Do you?"_ He rattled him again. "I'm doing it because I feel like this is my only chance to do something for _others._ My whole life, it's always been about me. I've gotta do this. I've gotta grow up. It's not about being childish, it's about growing the fuck up!"

He dropped him and backed away, panting heavily and running both of his hands through his hair. He seemed much calmer now, his face no longer red, but Will wasn't about to let his guard down.

"For once in my life, I feel like this'll be the right thing to do."

"Allan…"

"It's _growing up._ That's why I'm enlisting. That's why… that's why I got out of the way of you and Djaq. It's no big secret I like her as well as you do—but she doesn't feel that way about me. She wants you, and I know it. So I stepped aside, and sat about for two years watching you do _absolutely nothing_ about it. I coulda gone in at any time and tried to sweep her off her feet, but that wouldn't've been right. That's growing up, as well."

Will stared at him with wide eyes, breathing slowly and shakily to try and calm himself down. Of course he knew Allan had a thing for Djaq, but he didn't really realize how deep that infatuation went. Had it really been _that_ difficult for him, to watch them together? To see his hopeless sighing and simply maintain a respectable distance?

He never realized…

"And another thing—that girl's crazy about you. She's not even angry at you for yelling at her—she's angry at _herself_ for hurting you. You've got no control over what she does. And if she _does_ leave… d'you really want her last memory of you to be that she punched you and ran out of your house?"

He left a few second's pause for him to think.

"I'm sorry about this. I didn't mean to come here and throw you about. I just wanted to come over and talk some sense into you," he said as he turned to leave. He looked back over his shoulder. "Oh—and I signed up. Passed my physical and everything. There's no going back for me, now."

He sat dumbly as he heard Allan leave. His heart was pounding and his head was spinning. He felt exhausted, the adrenaline draining from him after his second fight of the day. He fell back down on the sofa, intent on gathering his thoughts and planning what to do next, but before he knew it he'd fallen asleep again.

It was hours later when he woke up, this time. Luke still wasn't back yet, and he imagined he'd stayed for another film. He didn't particularly care. At least _one_ of them will have had a decent day.

His head throbbed, from the now splendidly colourful black eye from Djaq and the thrashing against the wall that he'd gotten from Allan. As much as he hated to admit it, his friend was right. He _had_ to go talk to Djaq, even if all she was going to do was blacken his other eye. He stumbled dizzily to his feet and wandered over to the front door, slipping his shoes on and stumbling out the front door.

The first place he looked for her was Much's restaurant, but he told him, after marvelling at his black eye, that she'd already gone home. He didn't much feel like walking all that way this evening—it was going to get dark soon and he still felt like he'd been backed over by a bus—and started to trudge back home. He bumped into somebody along the way.

"I'm sorry, I wasn't paying attention—"

"You look terrible," the female voice said.

He looked up lazily. "Djaq?"

"Oh, dear… that really looks _awful," _she gasped, reaching out one hand tentatively to touch his face. He caught her hand and batted it away. "I am… I'm sorry. I lost my temper, and I should not have—"

"No, you were entitled," he interrupted. "I was a prat. I said plenty of things I shouldn't've."

"But they were true," she admitted quietly, tucking her hands into her pockets. "Most of it was true."

"Well, I wasn't… I'm sorry, as well. I'm just so… angry, I suppose. At everything. And you just happened to be closest and got the full brunt of it."

"I assumed it was something like that," she said.

"Look, I—I know you don't like this, but…" he took a deep breath. "I mean, if you're so desperate to get out of Robin's place, but you haven't got anywhere else yet, you could… you could stay with me. I find myself with an extra bedroom these days. It doesn't have to be permanent! Just until you can find whatever it is you're looking for."

"What do I do in return?"

He almost wanted to yell again, but he took a deep breath and controlled himself. "Well, I'm going to be doing all of my Dad's old projects, now, and being in school isn't going to leave me a lot of time for other things. You could tend the garden for me, raise the ducks. They're used to you, aren't they?"

The silence between them was deafening. She stood away from him, too far for him to reach out and touch her, with her hands behind her back. Dark eyes stared right through him in that peculiar way she had, assessing the situation. He wouldn't be surprised in the least if she refused, and told him that she never wanted to see him again—he deserved it, after all…

He had to think of _something_ to say…

A little tiny smile crossed her features, but her bottom lip quivered ever so slightly. "I can manage that," she whispered.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Oh god, I almost cried writing that first half! I thought it was really awful that I was sad over the death of a fictional character, until I remembered that that means I'm doing my job right. I'm not sure how I feel about the second half, though. It just seems a bit… schizophrenic. I might change some of it, but then again, I might not. It's a seriously emotional time for Will—his father's dead and he's facing the very real possibility that his two closest friends might be leaving soon. That can't make _anybody_ feel good.

As for why Djaq is so averse to taking charity—_any_ kind of charity—it's because I get the impression that she's very proud. In the series, she always works for her keep; she always does her part. The only reason she joined the outlaws to begin with was because they a) didn't hate her, and b) she believed in their cause and thought she had skills that could help them. If she hadn't, she wouldn't have asked to stay and wouldn't have stayed even if they offered. At least, that's my impression…

Anyway, enough of my babbling. Sometimes I think I have to explain my thinking on certain things.


	9. January, 1942

I love you guys. I really do. Sometimes readers can be put off by stories with 5000+ word chapters because it looks awfully daunting. I also have a _really_ hard time keeping my wordiness under control, as you've seen. But the fact that you guys not only don't mind my lack of chapter control, but you actually _enjoy_ the long chapters makes me all kinds of warm and happy and fuzzy inside. I _really_ love you guys!!

Ah, today is July fourth—American's Independence Day celebration. A lot of people take it _way_ seriously and get all crazy patriotic all over the place, but plenty of people—myself included—aren't quite that _enthusiastic._ Most people just use the holiday as an excuse to consume enormous amounts of food, play with fireworks, and drink copious amounts of alcohol. I, personally, plan on eating my weight in barbecue, having a few dozen drinks, and then going comatose on the sofa until next weekend. Wahoo!

Disclaimer: The BBC owns these characters. Not me. I just borrow 'em and put 'em in uncomfortable situations. A very small part of the dialogue in this chapter (you'll know it when you see it) was also borrowed from the series, and I claim no ownership of it.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**January, 1942**

A great deal had changed, in such a short period of time.

Their world was so different now.

Will was finished with school and a full-time cabinetmaker, taking over his father's clientele and trying to make the best of things. At least he already had a reputation as a highly talented craftsman, and didn't have to struggle to build up a client base; people already knew that the Scarlett boy was good at what he did. He was managing to pick up the pieces after his father's death, but for a long time he was prone to passionate outbursts at any little stimulus—it scared everybody, particularly those closest to a young man they'd always known to be very shy and calm and collected. He'd gotten past that, now, and mellowed out.

Luke was gone—in Scarborough, with his Auntie Annie. The boy protested at first, begging to stay, but he eventually relented. It almost seemed as if he, too, knew that staying with his aunt would be better on everybody than if he stayed with his brother before he'd sorted himself out. He was constantly writing letters, keeping Will up to date on his new school and how he was faring.

Allan left in the middle of June for six months of basic training, and didn't return until the week before Christmas—the holiday came and went, though, without really feeling like Christmas. He seemed… different, somehow. Proud of himself for doing something that he believed was right. He was almost an adult, now—confident and collected. It was an amazing change to observe. He wore his Class A's almost all the time, with a confident swagger in his step. He even trimmed his little goatee, though he still kept the silly thing. Sometimes it seemed like he didn't fully grasp the weight of what he'd gotten himself into; his orders to ship out could come at any time.

Djaq had been living in the Scarlett house since June, right about the time that Allan left for Basic. After their fight just after Dan died, she and Will had had to rebuild some bridges. She knew he'd be on edge for a long time—not unlike she had been, after her twin died—so she kept her distance until she felt comfortable around him again. It felt strange not living in the tiny little stable-master's house anymore, waking up every morning in this house, seeing Will every day. She was still taking care of the miniature farm in the back garden, as well as working at Much's Place as the full-time bookkeeper and tutoring a small handful of children as she had Luke.

She sat at the kitchen table, in the dark, quietly munching on a private stack of chocolate biscuits and drinking milk right out of the bottle—a bad habit, for sure, but she did it all the time when she lived alone, and old habits died hard. Another battle with insomnia was ahead of her, she imagined, as she looked around the little kitchen.

The stairs creaked, indicating that Will was on his way down. He padded into the kitchen in his rumpled pajamas and bare feet, turned on the light, and walked right past her without even noticing her. He opened up the ice box and stuck his head inside, hunting for a snack that they could spare out of their rations.

"Caught you with your hand in the cookie jar, didn't I?" She asked. She immediately regretted this.

He startled and tried to stand up, but he was still half inside the icebox and hit his head soundly on the shelf with a very loud _crack._ He turned around, rubbing the injured spot furiously.

"Are you all right?" She gasped.

"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine. Geez, Djaq!"

"You are sure?"

"Yeah."

"Good—now I can laugh at you," she squeaked before she started giggling.

"It isn't funny. It hurts."

"Oh, don't be such a baby," she said. "Come here."

He sat down across from her; she reached over with a hand behind his neck and pulled him towards her, then kissed the top of his head.

"Better?"

"A bit." He leaned on his elbow. "Hey, you have McVitie's," he said, reaching across the table towards the paper-wrapped package.

"My bikkies!" She hissed, slapping his hand and pulling them out of his reach. He looked like a hurt puppy; she sighed. "But I suppose you can have one."

"Did you use your points to buy those?" He asked as he nibbled the rare treat, determined to make it last at least a few minutes. Everybody was issued monthly "points" which could be used to purchase any foodstuffs they wanted in addition to their rations; most people, like Djaq, spent them on sweets.

"Yes. They are my private stash, so I would prefer if you did not make a habit of begging me for biscuits." As if to prove this, she took one last cookie out of the package before wrapping it back up and tying it with a bit of string.

"Understood."

They sat in quiet, eating their treats and passing the milk bottle—now sporting a thin layer of floaties—back and forth across the table. This was another thing she'd gotten used to over the last months. Being so comfortable around Will. Even in the clothes that passed as her pajamas: an old men's pajama top and old woolly socks.

"So why're you up at this hour?" He asked eventually.

"I cannot sleep—thinking too much. My mind will not shut up."

"You, too, eh?"

She sighed. "Do you want to talk first, or shall I?"

"I've been thinking about Luke," he began, answering her question with that statement.

"You miss him."

"That—and I wonder if I've done the right thing, splitting us up like this."

"He is happy with your aunt," she pointed out.

"I know that. And I know it might've been stressful or downright terrifying for him during those first few months. I dunno what I'd've done to him. He needed something steady, and I couldn't offer that. Not then."

"Are you thinking of having him back?"

"Wouldn't make sense, would it?" He asked rhetorically. "It's the middle of the school year, and I can hardly just pick him up and take him back. Anyway," he took a drink. "He'll probably be happier with her than with me. I'd have to go from being big brother to being a guardian, and that won't be any fun. And—he's safer there. Nobody's going to drop a bomb on Scarborough. Be a waste of a bomb, that."

"You are just having second thoughts, then. Doubting yourself."

"Did I do the right thing?" He asked with pleading eyes.

"Do _you_ think you did the right thing?" She asked right back, in that way she always did.

"I suppose so. Yes."

"Then you did the right thing."

"You think so?"

"It was your decision to make, and you chose this. If _you_ believe that you did the right thing, then you did—that is all there is to it."

He smiled at her. "You know how to talk a lot of sense."

"Somebody has to."

"So what was on your mind, keeping you up?"

"I am worried about Allan," she said quietly. "Any day now, his orders could come through. He'll be sent away." She swallowed, feeling her midnight snack as a heavy lump in her stomach. "Sometimes I do not think he realizes what he has gotten himself into. Like he thinks it is all a game. I worry he might not be grown up enough to understand the weight of his decision until it is too late."

"He could be killed," he finished for her.

She nodded. "I do not like to think about it."

"Neither do I."

"But… whether we like it or not, it is a possibility."

She was still _terrified_ that she'd lose one of her closest friends to war, but deep down, she was secretly happy that Will hadn't chosen to enlist. He was even exempt from conscripted service, because he was the eldest son and the guardian of his younger brother. The quiet relief she felt for this was always joined by an intense feeling of guilt. She loved both of them, yes, and she did _not_ love them in the same way—but her thoughts made her sometimes feel as if she loved Will more than she loved Allan. Which was certainly not true.

She was still glad that he wouldn't be going to war, but she would have been _much_ happier if Allan wasn't going, either.

"It _is_ a possibility," he agreed. "But I _really_ don't want to think about it."

"It is terrifying," she whispered, barely audible, as if this was some kind of secret.

He nodded sombrely, staring blankly at the kitchen wall.

Realizing she'd just added to his worries, she tried to restore confidence. "Some lads do not see combat, though," she said quickly, trying to reassure him. Her heart wasn't in it, though—his fears mirrored hers exactly. "Plenty of boys and men serve their entire tour of duty without once seeing the fighting."

"_Some,"_ he reiterated. "But very few. Almost all of the soldiers who go to the continent see at least six months of active combat."

She placed her hands over one of his. "He will be just fine," she said, convinced that if she said it enough, it would somehow be true.

"I suppose…"

"We worry about him and assume the worst because we love him, and because our Allan is still very much a little boy in some ways. But he _will_ be all right."

"I know. You're right," he sighed. "But it still doesn't make it any easier. I just wish he hadn't done it…"

"He made his own choice. Allan is a grown man, now—he can do whatever he likes," she said, speaking the mantra she kept repeating to herself over and over again. Whether they liked it or not, it was completely out of their power what their friend did with himself. As immature as he could be, she still had enough confidence in him to accept that he was secure in his decision—and by doing so, be confident in his decision herself. At least, that was what she kept _telling_ herself; there was still that aggravating, niggling doubt that permeated her thoughts about the matter. "He believes he has done the right thing. When all is said and done, that is the final test—if a person believes that they have done the right thing, really and truly _believes_ it… then what else is there to do but believe him?"

"Look, I know you're right and all, but… I'm still scared."

"So am I."

"About everything."

"So am I."

"Everything's so uncertain. The world, the war—all anybody knows is that the war's still in full force, and nobody knows when or how it'll end. Nobody knows how far the Nazis will come." She saw him visibly shiver. "Even here, everything's a bit uncertain—my job; Luke; you," he paused to stare pointedly at her across the table. "I don't know _anything_ anymore."

She got up from her chair and came to stand in front of him, tilting his head up to make him look at her and gently stroking his hair on one side.

"We are _alive,"_ she whispered. "That is a great deal more than a lot of people have."

He closed his eyes and leaned into her hand; when she placed it on his cheek, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to her palm.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

"Goodnight, Will."

The next morning dawned crisply cold, making all of the damp from the previous day freeze over and turning every horizontal surface into a dangerously slick obstacle course.

It was a Saturday. Djaq had the weekends off from work, during which time she could make the rounds to her tutees, but this weekend had been unusually quiet. She found herself at a loss for something to do. There wasn't much of a garden in the winter, and the little flock of ducks didn't need anything; she hadn't the faintest idea _where _Allan was, and Will was on the other side of Nottingham on a job.

She didn't really feel like going out anywhere—the cold and the ice and the gray and the wind all combined to make a trip any further than the front step to get the milk seem like a wholly detestable undertaking.

She admitted it: she was _bored._

In desperation, she dug through one of the boxes she hadn't unpacked yet—a box she hadn't actually unpacked at all since arriving in Nottingham three years ago—and rooted through its contents. A big old photo album was buried near the bottom, long forgotten.

She hadn't thought about this old book in years.

In a daze, she took it with her downstairs into the sitting room, where she propped it open on her lap and carefully turned through the old pages. The scraps of her old life—of Safiyyah's life—were preserved on these pages. She paused on a photograph of a beautiful young woman and her new husband, dressed in traditional costumes on their wedding day; their expressions were sober, but even Djaq could see the glint behind those dark eyes. They were deliriously happy together. She traced her fingers over the woman's face in another picture, this one just of her. She looked a little bit like her, she thought.

Then there were pictures of the couple in India, where they lived for a little while. Where their children were born, giving the babies British citizenship that would, years and years later, be their passage out of the Middle East.

And then the woman wasn't there anymore.

Gone. Dead; weakened from a hard labour with twins and struck down by a fever a few months later.

On another page, two chubby, dark-skinned and black-eyed babies looked back at her. Both of them were in little white frocks, even though one was a boy. All babies looked the same to her—she had no idea which one was her, and which was her brother. As the album progressed, the children grew older. She stopped and smiled at a photograph of the pair of them on their little ponies. On the back of the photograph, written in lovely Arabic script, was a brief description: _Safiyyah and Djaq, 1929._ That meant they were maybe five years old. She barely remembered that world, the one where a little girl with long dark hair lived and played alongside her brother, who was smaller and frailer than she was and wore thick glasses.

There were few pictures of her father left. He was almost always the one _taking_ the photographs, so it stood to reason that he wouldn't often be in front of the camera. She remembered him as being tall and bulky—like his brother—with greying hair and a hooked nose. She remembered his voice, as well—soft and deep and rhythmic.

But this wasn't her world anymore. This was Safiyyah's world. Her world—Djaq-the-girl's world—was a damp, cold, gray, and _perfect_ little piece of England. Her father and her uncle, if they were alive, would probably have been absolutely shocked at the way she lived, now—with short hair and in men's clothing, working to support herself and living so unashamedly unwed with a man. But, she wouldn't change this life. Uncertain as it was, it was something she built for herself; it was _hers._

"Djaq? The door was open, so I let myself in…"

The sound scared her far more than it should have, and she startled so badly that she fell right off the sofa onto the floor.

Allan rushed over to help her up.

"You all right? You were off in your own little world, there, you looked like a statue!"

"I am—ouch!—fine," she grunted, somewhat unconvincingly. "Ow, my hip…"

"D'you want me to kiss it and make it better?" He teased.

"Is this another one of your incredibly depraved fantasies?"

"Only with you," he shot right back. He took her hands and helped her up, then spied the photo album half under the sofa. "What's this?"

"Old photos," she said, reaching out to take it from him.

A grin came across his face. "This is you, isn't it? From before." He tapped one of the pictures of a young girl, in a dress and shiny black shoes, her hair in plaits all the way down to her waist.

"That is Safiyyah, yes," she said. "I am not sure how old she is there… maybe ten." She spoke of her former self in the third person, as if to emphasize—to herself as much as to Allan—that she wasn't the same person now as she was then.

Allan looked at her, but didn't say anything about the way she spoke.

"So why did you come around?" She asked, closing the album and putting it on an end table and swiftly changing the subject. "You aren't in your Class A's, either."

"I came to talk to you and Will—is he about?"

She shook her head, sitting back on the sofa. "He is on a job, and he will not be back until tonight."

"Oh."

"I can relay a message if you like."

"I kinda wanted to tell you both at the same time."

She frowned and crossed her arms; she never really liked it when Allan got serious. It scared her, because if something caused _him_ to sombre up, it usually meant something _bad_ was happening. The only really terrible thing she could think of that could happen to him was…

"Your call came in."

It was a statement, not a question; he nodded in response.

"I have to ship out tomorrow."

The blood rushed in her ears and her chest tightly constricted. She knew that this was coming. It was just a matter of time, after all, until he would have to leave them. But she didn't expect it would be so soon…

"Hey—don't cry!"

"I am not crying," she protested, but when she reached up she found her cheek was wet with tears. "All right, maybe a little…"

Hesitantly, he put one arm around her shoulders, hugging her gently. She turned into him and hugged him tightly around his chest.

"You shouldn't be crying. _I'm_ the one that's going to war," he said quietly against her short hair.

She sniffled against him.

"You had better be careful over there," she scolded, keeping her voice as stern as she could manage as she poked her finger into his chest. "You will not have me about to make sure you take care of yourself!"

He laughed weakly.

"I promise."

She pulled away and dried her eyes on her shirt sleeve. "Would you like to stay until Will comes back? I am sure you want to tell him yourself."

He smiled crookedly. "I can't. I have to get my things together to go, and put the rest of my stuff into storage, so I don't take up space in the Little's house."

"What time do you leave tomorrow?"

"Early."

"When?"

"My train leaves at seven—don't cry again. Seriously. I like it better when you smile."

She nodded and rubbed her eyes.

"I, um… I have something for you, by the way," he stuttered, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. He reached down to where he'd dropped his knapsack on the floor, and pulled out a box that looked to her like a shoebox. "Yours are looking kinda sad these days," he explained as he handed the box over.

She took it cautiously, her eyes trained on him. "What is this all about, Allan?"

"Just open it."

The box contained a new pair of bright red Converse. She looked up at him and opened her mouth to say something, but he cut her off before she could get the words out.

"Don't say you can't take 'em, or you don't wanna take charity," he begged. "I _wanted_ to do it, all right? 'Cos… well…" he rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks staining pink with uncharacteristic embarrassment. "I'm not being funny, but I fancy you, Djaq."

She froze and looked into those too-blue eyes. "W-what?"

"Look, I know you'n Will are sort of—together—now," he said, briefly searching for the right word. "But I didn't wanna go away without at least… without telling you."

"Allan…"

"I just wanted to get it off my chest, you know?" He said as he stood to leave. "I didn't want you never to know."

"Is this what happened between the two of you?" She asked, causing him to stop and turn around.

"How d'you mean?"

"Something happened between you and Will," she said. "I do not know what it is, but I supposed one of you would tell me eventually. You both… you both felt the same way about me, and it caused problems."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that. I mean, he knew how I felt and I knew how he felt, and, well… I realized that you could never feel the same way for me that you did for Will, and I just sort of let it go."

"Is there a reason you did not tell me?"

"Well… I didn't want to get in the way, did I? You always say you like us both the same, but I think you like Will a little differently. You picked him, not me."

"I…"

"Don't worry about it, all right?" He rumpled her hair playfully. "Everything's all right between us, and you're still my mate—always."

She took his hand out of her hair and squeezed it gently; then she hugged him again, fiercely.

"You are one of my very closest friends," she sniffled. "I love you, Allan a-Dale. If you do something silly and get yourself killed, I will never speak to you again."

o…o

His best friend was gone. Djaq waited for him on that Saturday night when he came home, sitting quietly on the stairs in front of the front door, something she only did when she had something important to tell him as soon as he walked in. She told him what Allan told her earlier that day—that his orders had come through, and he was going into Europe. It was all he could do to keep from breaking down and crying. Like her, Will knew that this day was coming, but it didn't make it any easier to hear the news.

He and Djaq took a cab to the train station the following morning for the sole purpose of seeing him off; he looked shocked that they'd come, but grateful that they were there all the same. They hugged each other fiercely on the platform, terrified to let go. Even Alice Little had come to the station, sniffling quietly into her handkerchief as if she were watching her own child go to war.

And then he got on the train, his back to them, and disappeared into the car. The pair of them stayed on the platform with the rest of the people and watched the train pull away, trying to spot their friend through the young men sticking their whole upper bodies out of the windows to wave to their friends and family that came to see them off. They didn't see him, but they watched the train pull away, and stood there long after the steam and smoke had cleared and the last car was out of sight.

It still seemed so odd to Will, not having him around anymore—not having him barge into the house without knocking, or run up from behind him and greet him by trying to fracture his skull, or not hearing his silly brand of comedic optimism that _shouldn't_ have made everything better and yet somehow always did.

Allan was his oldest friend, somebody he'd known since he was ten years old. With his absence, a very large part of his life was gone.

And he had the awful feeling that another part was _about_ to leave.

He didn't know whether or not Djaq still intended on leaving Nottingham—she hadn't mentioned it, and he never brought it up again after they fought about it. It frustrated him endlessly that he wouldn't be able to persuade her to stay with him if that _was_ her intent. He had the room, certainly—without her, it would just be him by himself, rattling around in this old house. Nor was he worried about keeping up payments, since his grandfather had bought the house approximately a thousand years ago and the whole thing had been paid off before he was born.

But he knew Djaq. She wouldn't stay if she felt she was a burden, and nothing short of begging—and probably not even that—would make her stay if she didn't want to. It terrified him.

He patted his pockets, looking for his ration book. He'd promised Djaq that he'd pick up his bacon ration tonight for some soup—one of the many tasks she did around the house was the cooking, at which he was completely hopeless. Actually, she did a _lot_ around the house. Maybe he could convince her that with everything she did, she _more_ than earned her keep.

Or maybe he could just tell her the truth, and admit that he desperately needed her.

He found the book in his back pocket.

"Here you go," he said, passing it across the counter to the butcher.

The man took it with a wordless grunt and cancelled his stamps, mumbling quietly to himself. "Dunno why they think this damn rationing is a good thing—how much can a bunch of soldiers eat that'd reduce the _entire country_ to four bloody ounces of bacon a week?"

"Thank you," the young cabinetmaker said loudly, so as to be assured that the other man could hear him. He was swiftly ignored, so, with a sigh, he took the paper-wrapped package and left.

Will strode out into the street but instead of heading home, he went in the other direction, towards Much's restaurant where he knew Djaq would be getting off of work soon.

He tucked himself into his coat—this afternoon was cold, even for him. Poor Djaq would be miserable on the walk home, he thought to himself. He leaned his head back to look up at the sky, full of clouds and revealing only the occasional blue patch. It'd been quiet since May; perhaps the air raids really _were_ finished, and they were safe, at least from aeroplanes.

As he walked, he passed shop-front windows and absently looked into them. In the toy shop window, he notice a rocking horse he'd made before Christmas—the one with the real horsehair tail and little bridle and matching red saddle—and was pleased to see a "SOLD" sign leaning on it. As much as he liked his job as a cabinetmaker, he loved making toys even better. Making furniture paid more money, but if it was up to him, he'd spend the rest of his life carving toys and little figurines. His father never much approved of the more frivolous side of his talents.

Thoughts of Dan caused a terrible plunging feeling in his stomach. There were still days that he woke up and forgot, through the fog of sleep or just because he wasn't thinking, that he wasn't around anymore. He still had things he wanted to talk to his father about—questions that would never be answered, advice that he'd never be able to get, a role model that he no longer had. He knew it was normal to feel this way, but he still felt as if it were just his mind being exceptionally cruel to him.

It was a few months after the fact that he thought—angrily, briefly—of joining the RAF, to retaliate for his father's death by dropping bombs on the Germans, but eventually common sense took over and he decided that it was a stupid idea. What would that solve, anyway? Nothing at all, apart from robbing other sons elsewhere of their fathers, and that would only have made him feel worse. Or he could have gotten himself killed, and then Luke would have lost his father _and_ his brother.

He sometimes wondered what his father would think of some of the decisions he'd had to make: sending Luke away, the way he was still making toys, bringing Djaq into the house. He wondered, as well, what he would think of his relationship with her. Dan had certainly liked her, and either knew or guessed about her identity long before she told anybody. He'd teased his son about his obvious infatuation with the girl—a woman, now, really. Will wondered if his father would approve.

But then, he didn't particularly care who did and didn't approve of the young Palestinian woman.

He crossed the road and opened the door to Much's Place, allowing two young women he recognized as old schoolmates to walk in ahead of him. He looked about, but Djaq was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey there, Will."

He saw Much sitting at the counter, looking up from agonizing over the _Times_ crossword puzzle, and waved.

"Hello. How's it going?"

"Not bad. Are you looking for Djaq?"

"Yeah—did she already leave?"

Much shook his head. "She's in the back," he said, pointing his pencil eraser towards the door to the back of the restaurant where she'd always change out of her work clothes.

"Am I allowed to go back there?"

"Go!"

He grinned. "Thanks."

Just as he started in that direction, the door opened and out walked Djaq, a familiar sight in her overalls, the old green coat, and trainers. She walked right over to the counter where Much sat.

"It is Friday, Much," she said. "Payday."

"Huh? Oh, yeah," he reached under the counter and pulled out a plain paper envelope. "Here—the two wait staff shifts you worked this week are in there, as well."

She plucked it out of his hands. "Thank you."

Will was about to say something when a voice from across the floor interrupted him.

"'Ey, there, sweetheart," the voice drawled. "You're not on work no more, so how's about I buy you that drink now, eh?"

He turned and saw a man sitting at an adjacent table, leering greasily at her with a gaping yellow-toothed smile. He didn't recognize the man, and supposed he must have just been passing through on a working or something like that.

Djaq was ignoring him, counting out the money in her pay packet.

"Don' ignore me, now," he tried again. "C'mon, what'll it hurt?"

She didn't respond; instead, she tucked her pay packet into her knapsack.

"It'll hurt _you_ if you don't stop," Much said without looking up from his crossword. "She'll hit you."

"Oh, really? I haven't been hit since I were in school—and the teacher what did it wasn't _near_ as cute as you are."

Will bristled. The man was a pig, and he decided he was going to do something sneaky and underhanded about it.

"Excuse me," he said, walking over and standing next to her. "I've never seen you before in my life and I have absolutely no idea who you are, but you're very pretty and it looks like this man is bothering you. Would you like to come back with me to my place?"

Her eyes glinted as she looked up at him, catching on to his little game.

"Yes, thank you, I would like that very much," she said, somehow managing to keep a straight face. She stood on her toes and pecked him on the lips.

He thought to pick her up and carry her out—just for the effect—but he didn't have enough hands to carry Djaq, the knapsack, his packet of bacon, _and_ open the front door. So he settled for taking her hand and kissing it as they walked together out of the building. They'd barely walked ten paces before they each broke down and started laughing.

"Did you see his _face?"_ She giggled. "He looked like he was going to explode!"

He was still laughing. "I thought he was going to come after me for 'stealing' you."

"It's hardly my fault, is it? I cannot be expected to turn down a handsome man like you."

He felt his cheeks go pink; he was slowly learning how to respond to such blatant flirting, though he knew he was no match for Allan.

"Does it bother you when I do that?" She asked, craning to look up at him as they walked. "The flirting?"

"Not really," he shrugged. "At least when you do it with me, you actually mean it. At least I _think_ you do."

"Of course I do," she said sternly. "I only do it with Allan because he does not know any other way to talk with girls."

"That's definitely true. He sweet-talked a woman outside school once for half an hour, and then found out later that she was the new art teacher."

She laughed again, smiling at him with that wide smile that always made his insides melt like a silly teenager with a crush. He hesitantly put an arm around her shoulders and kissed the top of her head, pleased when he felt her sigh under his arm.

They picked their way up the garden path together, Djaq pausing to pick up the post from the floor on the way into the house. He went into the kitchen and put the bacon in the icebox for her to use later.

"It really is _freezing_ out there," she grumbled as she followed him, flipping through the envelopes. "I do not know how you can stand it."

"I guess it's just what I'm used to—the same phenomenon that makes _you_ impervious to heat," he suggested. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Do we have it?"

He rifled through the cupboards. "Plenty. We don't drink as much as other people do."

She didn't answer; she was looking at something she'd picked up amongst the post.

"Anything interesting?" He prodded, looking briefly over her shoulder to try and see what she was so absorbed in. He only saw a few words before she turned the piece of paper on the table.

"It is… a letter from a woman letting rooms. I wrote her some time ago, after I saw the advert," she said quietly.

He froze.

"She says that she would be willing to let a room to me, and that she would like to meet me. I asked her about any jobs offered in the area—there are bed and breakfasts looking for staff, department stores looking for accountants, schools looking for tutors."

So she _had_ been thinking of leaving after all. The playfulness that surrounded them only minutes earlier suddenly dissolved, to be replaced by tension.

"Where is this woman?" He asked, his voice rasping.

"Torquay."

_Torquay._ That was _miles_ away. The old, familiar feeling of dread swept over him. He hadn't felt fear like this since the last air raid. It was becoming very, very real—he was facing the distinct possibility that she'd be leaving, going to the other side of the country where he probably wouldn't see her again.

"Sounds like you're all set then," he said, his voice completely calm and even and working traitorously against him. _Tell her not to go!_ A persistent little voice screamed in the back of his head_._ _Beg her not to go! Tell her you love her, tell her you'd fall apart without her!_

She nodded slowly. "I suppose."

Silence. For the first time, the lack of talk between them felt uncomfortable and unnatural. He stared at the back of her head as she sat at the table; she stayed perfectly still, barely even breathing.

"You are… not angry?" She asked softly without turning.

"No."

The silence descended on them again, stifling and heavy like an itchy woollen blanket.

"Actually, yes," he said, frowning. "Why do you have to leave? Really, give me a _real _reason for it, and not just that you don't want to be a burden to anybody, which you aren't, or that you don't want to take charity or some rubbish that I don't believe. Really. Tell me why you want to leave."

"I do not _want _to—"

"Then _why?" _He interrupted pleadingly, leaving the forgotten tea on the countertop and sitting next to her. "Why leave? You have friends here—people who love you. Why do you feel like you have to leave all of that behind?"

"You do n—"

He still wasn't letting her finish. "You can't go," he continued, his resolve failing him miserably as the words spilled from him like a broken dam. "My Dad's dead and I sent Lukey away, and now Allan's gone, as well, and… and… dammit, you're the only person I've got left! I can't lose you, too! I can't lose you…"

Pause.

"I know… I know it might sound strange and maybe a bit silly, but… I—I love you, Djaq. I do. I love everything about you. I love the way you always say what you mean. I love your silly voice—"

"Silly voice?" She echoed, neither face nor voice betraying any emotion.

He laughed weakly and kept going. "I love the way you… you talk to the ducks before you take their eggs, and the way you always used to yell at the planes like they could hear you." He took a shaky breath. "And the way you will always—_always_—be a woman."

"Will."

"Yes?"

"Will you let me speak now?"

He nodded, knowing that the next thing that came out of her mouth would determine whether or not he saw fit to walk under a bus.

She smiled only briefly and opened her mouth to speak, but she choked quietly and hid her face in her folded arms, her shoulders quaking. He didn't know if she was laughing or crying—possibly she was doing both. When she sat up to wipe her eyes, he realized she'd laughed herself to tears. This couldn't be good.

"I do not want to leave Nottingham," she said finally, reaching across the table to take his hand. Hers trembled ever so slightly. "I want to stay here, with you. Because I love you, too. It is not silly and it is not strange—I am _hopelessly_ in love with you, Will Scarlett."

The feeling of relief that came over him was so intense that he'd have fallen down had he not already been sitting. She wasn't leaving. She wasn't leaving, and she wanted to stay with him—because she loved him.

He leaped to his feet with a whoop and scooped her up in his arms, startling a cry out of her as she desperately grasped at him.

"Will!" She cried out, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his hips so as not to be flung across the kitchen in his elation.

He stilled and held her close, his arms firmly wound around her torso and his forehead against hers.

This time, he started the kiss, dragging his lips against hers again and again, caressing her mouth and nipping her bottom lip until she whimpered quietly.

"I love you," he whispered hotly against her neck.

"I know—and I love you," she murmured back before she claimed his lips once again. a persistently

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I'm totally craving some chocolate bikkies now. McVitie's! Why hast thou forsaken me!

Yes, Allan's gone to war; no, I am _not_ saying if he comes back or not. You'll just have to wait. I felt it was time for some Allan/Djaq interaction in this chapter. I thought the idea of him replacing her shoes was sweet—obviously not a gift that he'd give to a normal girl, meaning he doesn't think of her as "just another girl." It's one of the things that sets her apart from other girls, and he likes that about her. (In those days, Converse were for young children and basketball players. Adults didn't wear them, and certainly not women.)

Will and Djaq are "official" now, too. I'd sort of wanted to add more—ahem—spice to that last scene, but I didn't think it'd be a good place to leave you hanging. I promise to try to fit in more fluff in future.


	10. July, 1942

Sorry about the mini-delay. I got held over at the doctor's office!

You know, in the time it took me to write this chapter, we had a tornado and some really horrific thunderstorms. (Don't panic. Nobody was hurt.) The power was out for two days—I wrote most of the chapter out on paper while we were waiting for the electricity to come back on. That's either dedication, or desperation. I'm still not sure which it is.

Disclaimer: While I'd've liked having Robin, Will Scarlett, and Allan a-Dale in the basement with me to keep my mind off of the tornado… I don't own them. The BBC does. I wonder if they have a loan policy…

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o…o

**July, 1942**

Her dream faded slowly, replaced by the familiar sight of the bedroom around her, the sounds of morning drifting in through the open window, and the gentle snoring below her. She smiled lazily and threaded her fingers through Will's dark hair, revelling in the marvellous feeling of skin on bare skin. His head rested on her stomach, hot breath on her skin; his arms were wrapped firmly about her waist and the rest of his warm weight kept her comfortably pressed into the mattress. She couldn't have gotten up if she wanted to.

Good thing she didn't want to get out of bed, then.

She stretched as much as she could, extending her arms as far as she could reach, arching her back, and shifting her legs a tiny bit. She folded one arm behind her head and used the other hand to stroke his face and his hair—still slightly damp with sweat and Djaq. She could smell herself on him. It was strangely wonderful.

It hadn't taken long after their declaration of love to one another for their fledgling love to become something significantly more physical. She started out just sometimes sneaking into his bed at night—feeling oddly unwilling to sleep alone and glad for such close, if not entirely aware, company. At first he'd been shocked, and then amused; after it became pretty well a nightly occurrence, he'd suggested that she just move into his room with him and cut down on the night-time travel.

And that was that. They hadn't slept apart since. Things went very quickly from there—at first shy and awkward, then became intense and heavy and wonderful. They grew used to one another's bodies, exploring and testing each other until exhaustion overtook them for the night.

She felt him stir, shifting on top of her; she flexed her fingers against his scalp and he whimpered softly in response. His eyes fluttered open, squinting in the bright morning light as his sight adjusted to it.

"Nnph," he groaned low in his throat, sending reverberations through her belly. He twisted, lifting his head slightly; his cheek was red on the side that had contact with her skin all night. "Morning."

"Not for too much longer."

"Mm…"

"Oh!" She yelped and squirmed beneath him as he lipped her warm skin and trailed little ticklish kisses up her stomach. "Will!"

He laughed softly against her and planted one last kiss between her breasts before climbing up to lean over her. "Yes?" He asked as innocently as he could manage.

She giggled helplessly.

"We cannot stay in bed all day," she forced herself to say. As much as she wanted to stay, they would _eventually_ have to get up.

His lips were on her neck now. "Why not?"

"In case you had forgotten—" here she gasped as he gently bit her collarbone. She gave him a shove. "You are going to visit your brother. You have a train to catch this afternoon."

The look on his face indicated to her that he'd completely forgotten about this; he drooped his head and sighed.

"Can't we—"

"We are_ not_ waiting to the last minute," she said quickly, before he even asked the question. "Come on—off. You need to finish packing your things and we both need a wash."

With a defeated sigh and one last kiss, he pushed himself up off of her and stumbled sluggishly out of bed. "I know, I know. I'm up," he grumbled as he groped around on the floor for some clothes.

"Go have a shower," she ordered, nudging him with her foot.

"You could join me," he offered.

"No. If I come with you, one thing will just lead to another and the next thing you know we will be twenty minutes late to the station and looking suspiciously debauched."

He laughed. "Message received."

He left the room with an armful of clean clothes, leaving her by herself. Briefly, she wondered if she might get away with going back to sleep for a few minutes, but decided against it. They _had_ to get a move on.

She could hear the water running in the bathroom as she crawled out from under the sheets and padded around the bedroom floor in the cool morning air, picking up clothes as she went. She pulled on underwear and then a pair of trousers that she had to disentangle from the top of a bookcase. The next thing on was a vest—one of Will's and too big on her.

Downstairs, she absently pulled her shoes onto her bare feet and walked into the back garden, stepping out amongst the ducks and the vegetable garden. She fed her birds and collected eggs automatically, well used to doing these tasks every morning. The garden wouldn't need watering—judging by the gray clouds overhead, it would rain sometime today. Though in Djaq's experience, the best way to _make_ it rain was to water the garden. She brought the morning's eggs and a few tomatoes plucked from the vine back into the kitchen, carried in the extra fabric of her shirt.

Once inside, she put her haul away where it all belonged and put some water on for tea. Over her breakfast of toast with honey and the _Telegraph_ crossword puzzle, she began to think on how strange it would feel to be in this house by herself. It would only be for a few days, granted, but it would still feel odd. She still felt just the littlest bit like a guest in the house, even though she'd lived here for more than a year.

In truth, she'd feel a little strange not having either of her closest friends about. She was still getting used to Allan being away—he wrote them, of course, when he could, but being in a war zone obviously made it hard to do. An incredible feeling of loneliness overtook her just then, and she grunted and mentally shook herself. It was only a few days, she reminded herself, and she'd have work to keep her busy until he got back. Maybe she'd call on Marian—she hadn't talked with her in a while.

And anyway, it would be selfish of her to ask him to stay just because _she'd_ feel a bit out of sorts.

Will was going to Scarborough for a few days to see his aunt and Luke—they hadn't seen one another since Luke came for Christmas, and then it had hardly been a joyous occasion. It was more like a funeral than two brothers seeing each other for a holiday after six months apart. Will had offered her the chance to come along with him, to see Luke and meet Auntie Annie, but she'd politely declined. She wasn't sure how she would be received in Scarborough; she knew she was lucky enough to have been accepted so well in Nottingham, after the outright discrimination she'd experienced in London before she came here, but that other places might not be so welcoming.

No, she felt much more comfortable staying here.

The teakettle whistled loudly, startling her.

She made two cups of tea—one for herself and one for Will—and settled back down with her newspaper just as he came into the kitchen.

"I'm clean now," he said as he took a seat. "Do I pass inspection?"

"Hmm," she wrinkled her face, as if in deep thought, leaning back in her seat to get a good look at him. He was dressed in a plain white shirt and a pair of khaki-coloured trousers; his shirt was partially untucked, a habit of his that she found rather endearing. "Did you shave?"

"Yes."

"You might take a step closer to the razor next time."

He half-scowled and half-smiled, but didn't respond to this. Instead, he took a piece of toast from the plate in the middle of the table.

"You know," he said around a mouthful of toast. "It's not too late. You could still come with me."

She sighed. "I don't think so. I would not want to impose."

"_Djaq."_

"Old habits—sorry."

"Auntie Annie wouldn't mind at all—she'll put anybody up. And she'd love to meet you."

"Why? What have you been telling her about me?"

"It's mostly Luke, actually. He thinks you're the most fantastic person in the world."

"That opinion runs in the family, doesn't it?" She asked with a cheeky grin.

"Clearly."

"I still cannot come."

"Why on earth not?"

"Even supposing I did not feel badly turning up uninvited at your aunt's house—who would we get to water the garden and mind the ducks at the last minute? I have not said anything to Much about missing work, either. And we have not cancelled the milk. We would come back to find bottles on the doorstep, filled with what could be either old milk or fresh yogurt."

He snorted in his tea. "You're right," he sighed as he mopped up the spill. "Like always. Why're you always so practical?"

"Because you are not, and one of us has to be or else nothing will _ever_ get done," she said matter-of-factly. His soft sigh told her that he was resigned, knowing perfectly well that she was right. She folded up her paper and started cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

He followed suit, bringing cups and dishes and spoons to the sink. They took up their positions as they always did: Djaq washed, he dried.

"Lukey'll be disappointed. He misses you."

"I know. Give him a kiss from me, and tell him I miss him, as well."

"It won't mean the same thing, coming from me."

"It will have to do." She pulled him down with a hand around his neck, and kissed the top of his head. Then she left him in favour of the shower upstairs.

She stood in the stream of warm water for a long time, letting it run down her hair and face and back, dried sweat and saliva from the previous night rinsing off her skin. There was a reddish-purple love bite on her hip, and she silently scolded him for it—but at the very least, it was where nobody was going to see it. She knew he'd learned his lesson that time he left one on her neck, and she became very cross with him because of it—and she wore a plaster over it for three days, telling people she had a bad mosquito bite. On the other hand, she thought, poking the mark experimentally, this one would be a private little reminder of him while he was gone.

She washed the soap out of her hair and hopped out of the bathtub, wrapping herself up in a towel. Her clean clothes were folded in a neat little pile on the floor and she hopped around the bathroom, pulling on her jeans and turning them up at the bottom like she always had to—curse her short legs. She tucked the front of her t-shirt in before trotting back downstairs.

Will was already at the bottom of the stairs in the front hall with his suitcase. He sat on the bottom step, lacing up his own trainers as she stepped over him to get hers from the back door.

"D'you remember what time the train leaves?" He called.

"It leaves at one, but we should be there a bit earlier," she replied as she walked back, one shoe untied and the other in her hand. "We should leave soon to catch the bus."

He nodded, pulling his trousers back down his startlingly pale legs to cover his shoes.

"You could _read_ by your legs, Will," she teased.

"Oh, stop that. It's hardly my fault is it? It comes with being English," he retorted, pushing all of her hair forward the way he always did when he wanted to irritate her. She returned the favour, then she pushed him backwards until he sat hard on the stairs; he grabbed her arm as he fell, bringing her down with him.

They both knew they were acting like children, but decided that they didn't care as they sat laughing at their own little immature game. Both of them had always been somewhat on serious side and rather grown-up, even when they were young; logic suggested that they would only become moreso as they got older, when their circumstances changed and when they lived together. As it turned out, the opposite had happened—they grew quite silly and childish, taking pleasure in play-fights and antagonizing one another in good fun. It was a refreshing change, actually. With so little to be able to laugh about sometimes, they often found they had to dredge humour out of everyday situations.

Djaq knelt on the stairs, one knee on either side of his hips and one hand on either side of his head; he still held onto her arm with one hand and his head was back against the step behind him. They were still laughing at themselves.

"Are we ridiculous?" Will asked.

"Definitely. Like two little children in the bodies of adults." She kissed him on the cheek before she pulled herself up off of him and off of the stairs.

He, too, stood up and then took his suitcase. "Ready?"

With her nod, they left the house for the bus.

The station was crowded with people making their summer trips, many of them headed to little holiday towns, such as Scarborough. People ran from one end of the station to the other, luggage and squabbling children and railroad timetables in tow, arguing with porters and station staff.

It was crazy.

It hadn't even been this mad the day they came to see Allan off, with soldiers and their families and friends crowding the station.

A little five-year old boy charged in between them, squealing at an inordinately high octave; immediately after him was, they assumed, his father, calling out the name "Timothy" and excusing himself as he weaved around and in between people to catch up with the boy.

Will went over to the ticket counter and tried to purchase his ticket from the ancient woman at the till. Djaq stood with her back against a brick pillar, arms crossed over her chest, quietly observing the chaos around them. There was somebody making an announcement over the loudspeakers, but she couldn't decipher any of it.

"Mummy, I don't want to go see Gram!" A young girl whimpered, tugging helplessly on her mother's hand as the woman dragged the child towards the platform.

"Come _on,_ Gracie, stop _struggling!_ Why don't you want to go see your grandmother? She looks forward to this every year!"

"She _scares _me!"

"How does she scare you? She's just a harmless little old lady."

"Gram smells funny, and she pinches my cheeks and hugs me too tightly. And she takes her teeth out and cleans them with her knife! And she never remembers my name—she always calls me Julia. Who's Julia, Mummy?"

Djaq snickered as the girl's mother winced. "Let's _go!"_ The woman said, giving her daughter another rough tug by the hand.

Poor girl.

A group of boys passed by next—old enough to go away by themselves for a few days, but too young to have joined the army. They were pushing one another, insulting each other, and making eyes at every girl they saw. But they didn't see her; their eyes passed right over the small, boyish girl with the short hair. Except for one of them, a boy with flaming red hair and brown eyes and more freckles than skin. He stopped in his tracks and grinned stupidly at her, waving awkwardly—he couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She decided to humour him and smiled at him, then watched his whole face turn the same colour as his hair.

"Flirting with the boys, are we?" Will asked, his breath hot in her ear.

"Of course not," she answered, turning to face him, looking into his green eyes. "Did you get your ticket?"

He nodded. "Finally. That woman must've been two hundred years old and hadn't the faintest idea how to operate the till." He looked about for the station clock. "How much time do we have?"

"About five minutes," she answered. "You had better run. I will see you when you get back." She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.

"Wait," he murmured.

Before she could ask what for, he'd dropped his suitcase and clasped her firmly by the waist, leaning her backwards. He kissed her fiercely, like a dramatically romantic scene in a film, and in full view of the entire station. Several people around them applauded. A few whistled. She was simultaneously speechless and fighting laughter as he righted her again.

"That'll last until I get back," he said confidently. Then he took his suitcase again and made off.

Around her, there were still people whispering and giving her all manner of funny or scolding looks. Her ginger admirer stood rooted to his spot with his mouth hanging open until his friends dragged him away with shouts of, "She's got a boyfriend, mate!"

So much for shy Will Scarlett, she thought, shaking her head.

She took the bus back to town, but instead of disembarking at her usual stop to go home, she instead took the route to Marian's house on the other side of town. She didn't feel much like going back right now. Marian would be good for talk.

The sky rumbled softly, the sound rolling through the gray clouds and into the distance; the wind started to blow, as well, bringing with it the soggy-sweet smell of rain.

She knocked on Marian's door, even as she thought that she didn't even know if her friend was at home or if she was going to be interrupting something. Certainly she didn't want to be rude…

"Hello, Djaq," came the familiar voice. Marian _was_ about. "What brings you around?"

"Oh, I… I just left Will at the station. He's going the Scarborough for a few days. May I come in?"

The older woman stepped aside, silently beckoning her into the house. Djaq toed her shoes off in the hall and followed her into the sitting room.

"Feeling a bit lonely already?" She teased.

"Maybe."

She sighed wistfully. "Ah, young love—when a few days apart feels like years."

"Actually, I just do not feel quite right going back to his house by myself. It feels strange."

"Why? You live there now."

"It still feels strange."

"You are singularly _unfathomable,_ Djaq Bseiso."

She raised her eyebrows, but didn't ask what she meant by this. Something told her she might not quite like the answer.

"So how goes it between you two?"

"Prying, are we?"

"You're my unofficial little sister. It's my job to pry. And anyway, you wanted to chat or else you'd not have come to see me."

With a sigh, she answered, "We are the same, really. The only thing that has changed is that we live in the same house." She was lying through her teeth, but she wasn't sure she should be spilling details of her love life. _Some_ things should be kept private.

"And sleep in the same bed," Marian added cheekily, grinning to herself when the young woman's eyes went wide. "It's neither new nor shocking, Djaq."

"I suppose not. I'm still not sure how you found out."

Her friend had guessed several months ago that something beyond "innocent young love" was happening between herself and Will, and she hadn't let up teasing her about it since. She had absolutely no idea how she'd guessed.

"I was young once, too, you know. Except I never had the luxury of living under the same roof as my sweetheart, and having a house all to ourselves. We always had to sneak in and out of each other's houses when the adults weren't looking."

Despite the fact that she'd known Robin and Marian now for years, their relationship remained largely a mystery to Djaq; she couldn't understand what, exactly, was going on between them. Sometimes they were regular sweethearts, joined at the hip and making eyes at each other across rooms. Other times, they fought bitterly over things that only ever mattered to them. Marian often yelled at him, insulted him, and called him a glory hound; she called him a little boy, and often expressed frustration over the fact that he was so headstrong and seemed to believe that he, and _only_ he, could save the whole world. And then, other times she talked about him softly, in the tender words of a lover, like she admired him for what he did despite the fact that she was always admonishing him about it.

They thrived on arguments, it seemed. Arguing must have been their foreplay. Even when they weren't actively fighting, and even when they were busy acting like teenagers in love, they kept up a sort of affectionate animosity. They teased and poked and prodded and antagonized one another like an old married couple. They loved nothing more, apparently, than irritating each other.

And yet, despite all of this, she had rarely heard Robin speak anything but affection and admiration for "his Marian". He always called her that when he was talking to somebody else about her, and she wasn't about to come and hit him for it. Even when they were fighting—and they were almost _always_ fighting—he was tender and sweet and teasing with her. A few times he'd expressed frustration about something or other to do with her, but it never lasted; before long, he'd be back to grinning and winking at her and calling her "my love".

It really was a _wonder_ they weren't married yet. Theirs truly was a strange relationship. Djaq didn't understand it at all.

She picked her words carefully before asking nervously, "What is it, exactly, between you and Robin? You are both so profoundly _odd."_

Marian raised her eyebrows at the question, then threw her head back and laughed. Just laughed and laughed. "Oh, goodness," she sighed, wiping one teary eye on the back of her hand. "I think I'll go and make some tea."

"Tea? Why? Is it required for an answer? Isn't it too hot for you to drink tea?"

"It's never too hot for tea," she replied, making her way to the kitchen. "And besides, if we're going to talk of me and Robin, we shall need the fuel."

She followed Marian into the kitchen to help, and was immediately told to sit down.

"I hope you don't mind toast with honey and jam," she offered apologetically. "I had to use my spare points this month on eggs, so I haven't got any chocolate biscuits."

"I thought Robin gave you eggs."

She shrugged, rooting around in her cupboards for the tea. "He used to, but what with all of those people coming into and out of his house…"

"Oh, I see…"

So, Robin was still doing… whatever it was he'd been doing. Since leaving his service, she hadn't seen or heard those strangers moving in and out of Robin's house—but she didn't expect that they'd all just suddenly left. She still had no idea what they were there for.

"Will and I—we keep ducks," she said. "They lay more eggs than we eat, and we sell what we don't use. If you would like, you can have some."

"How much?"

"A penny an egg, but we get first pick."

Marian smiled. "Thank you, Djaq. That's very kind of you."

"It is the least I can do."

Her friend stood at the sink, staring out the window as she absently filled the teakettle with water. She had a sort of half-dreamy look on her face.

"You know… I've known that silly boy since we were children," she sighed. "He was always _there,_ even before I really knew him."

Djaq didn't say anything—she couldn't think of any words, so she just sat and listened.

"Eventually we got to know one another—as friends, you know? We went out with other people and we never really considered each other. And then when he was in upper sixth, and I was in year ten… I don't know, it just sort of happened. He was always there, but it never really occurred to either of us until then."

She sighed and placed the full kettle on the stove, then came to sit opposite the younger girl at the kitchen table.

"And then what?" She prodded gently. "It did not turn into a faerie-tale romance, did it?"

Marian sighed and shook her head. "No—no, it didn't."

There was a long pause.

"Well?" Djaq asked.

"Well, we dated on and off for years, didn't we? He went off to university and I finished up with school, and we'd fall out of touch during the school year while he was away. And then he'd come back for the summer and we'd pick up again, and it would all be perfect and lovely for a few months. And then school would start again and we'd fall back out of touch. It went on like that for two years."

"So… you would be with him for summer, but then you would not hear from him for the rest of the year?"

"He'd come back during the winter holidays, obviously," she said. "But other than that, we didn't have much contact."

"And then?"

"We went our separate ways. He's always been a bit on the childish side. I loved it when we were younger. I thought it was… endearing. But I grew up, and he didn't. I suppose I expected him to outgrow it. I was all of nineteen, I thought I knew everything. Just when he was about to finish up at university, I went to nursing school. We'd both always wanted to do things for other people—wanted to help people. Robin was always more militant about it, charging ahead like he was the whole damned cavalry. He never _thought_ about anything he did. He just… _did it."_

Another pause. Marian was off in daydream land, and Djaq was silent.

"I wanted to do things, as well. I've always wanted to help people—but maybe it was Robin who brought it out in me. But I thought it would be better to do things that could help people more forthrightly. As a nurse, I could do things and be useful and be _helpful._ I don't think he really ever understood that. He always thought he could go about things like he'd always done. He does his bumbling best, but he doesn't always think things through. He thinks he can save the world—I think he thinks he's Robin Hood."

"It sounds to me like you are still waiting for him to grow up."

"I spent a lot of time waiting for him to grow up. I thought maybe he'd grow out of it but… that's just who he is. I can't change it, and to be honest I don't think I want to."

"Does he know this?"

"I don't know. I admire what he does, that he has the courage to do things for no other reason than because he wants to help people. Other people take payments, or demand favours. Not him."

"You ought to tell _him_ that, not me," she said softly. "He thinks the world of you—to know that you love him as he is and do not wish to change him would probably make him the happiest man alive."

Her smile was sweet.

"Do you know who all of those people are? The ones he brings in and out of his house all the time?"

Djaq shook her head.

"At first I thought he might have someone on the side. Another girl. Another man. I didn't know. So I looked into it. It took me a long time—lots of listening at keyholes. But I worked it out," she laughed half-heartedly. "Robin has contacts all over the continent. Friends, his father's old business partners, associates—that sort of thing."

"Is he letting them all stay with him?"

She shook her head. "No. They're… the people were all Jews. My Robin is smuggling Jews out of Europe."

Dark eyes opened wide. Every time she thought she had Robin Locksley figured out, she found something else that just utterly shocked her. He was risking great danger in what he was doing, in illegally bringing Jews into the country. Not only was it expensive, it was _dangerous._

"Where does he send them? They do not stay," Djaq asked.

"He's got other contacts, as well, not just on the continent. He's been arranging to send them overseas, to Canada and the United States. As far from this war as possible—no threat of invasion there."

They looked across the table at each other, clearly each thinking the same terrible thoughts: those who sheltered and aided and harboured Jews from occupied countries were held on the same level of contempt by the Nazis as were the Jews themselves. If England were ever to become occupied… Robin could face charges of war crimes.

"I'm a _fool,"_ Marian sighed sadly. "I tell him he's just a silly little boy, that he's always being idiotic the way he tries to do _everything._ But Robin is… he's a hero, isn't he? He has the courage to do something dangerous for the benefit of others, at a risk to his own safety. To do something that few people have the courage to do. That… that _I_ don't have the courage to do."

"Marian?" She'd never heard her friend sound like this before. Even when she was saying something _nice_ about Robin, she always managed to do it while simultaneously insulting him. But now she was being completely, openly, honestly, and unapologetically admiring of him. She'd always known that Marian loved him, but this was the first time she'd seen her so forthright about it.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "You came around because you wanted some company, not to see me go all silly."

"It is all right," Djaq assured. "I do not mind it—I do not often see you talk this way about him. It's… different."

She smiled weakly. "I know. I don't say it nearly as often as I should. I don't… I don't even think he knows that I feel this way."

"No," she interjected sternly. "No, he knows. You do not give him nearly enough credit. Robin is an astute man, and he knows you. I think he already knows how you feel—he does not have to be told."

Marian patted her hand. "I'm sure you're right, Djaq. Now, let me get the toast."

Despite the woman's protests that she just sit and wait, Djaq made the tea and set the tea set up on the table, and then took her place back at the kitchen table. When Marian finished making the toast, she came back to the table carrying it on a plate along with the honey and the jam jar.

They sat at the table sipping tea and chatting. As much as she greatly disliked associating with most girls and women, Djaq was very fond of Marian. She was too old to be bothered with squealing and gossip, and offered good advice and good conversation. Will was good for it, as well, but in a different way. And as much as she liked roughhousing with her lads, sometimes it was nice to just talk.

Even though she always said it in jest, it really _did_ feel like Marian was the big sister she'd never had. She never really had _any_ female friends—nor did she ever feel that something was missing from her life by this.

But then again, her friend wasn't anything like those irritating teenaged girls. She wasn't anything like other women. Maybe that's why they got along so well together.

During a lull in the conversation, the younger woman stared into her tea, thinking. Something had been on her mind for a while—she knew that if anybody could answer her query, it would be Marian—though she wasn't sure if now was the time or place to bring it up.

"Is something wrong?" She finally asked, tilting her head down to try and get a look at Djaq's face from across the table.

"You have dealt with men coming back from the service, haven't you?" She asked softly.

"Some, yes," she answered after a pause. "Why?"

"What… happens to them? Their injuries—how bad are they?"

"What's wrong, Djaq?"

"Could you answer my question, please?"

"Well…" she tapped her fingers on the sides of her teacup, making gentle _tink-tink-tink_ sounds. "I've seen a lot of the more seriously hurt ones—the ones who have to be sent elsewhere to have their injuries dealt with, so my experiences aren't really characteristic of what happens over there. They have field hospitals, you know, where they can treat most of the more superficial battle wounds."

"What makes a wound superficial?" She asked, horrified. How could _anybody_ think of the invasion of a body by ammunition as _superficial?_

"Little flesh wounds. Things like bullet wounds, graze wounds, fractures, broken bones, transport accidents—injuries that can be treated quickly with little recovery time, and the soldiers sent back to their regiments. I don't see those."

"Then what _do_ you see?"

"Why are you asking me these questions?"

Djaq stared back into her tea, suddenly fascinated by the film forming on the surface of the liquid. "I have heard that many soldiers lose arms and legs. Some lose an eye. Others lose hands and fingers, or are hurt so badly that they cannot walk or use their hands again."

"Yes, I know. I've… I've seen those," Marian conceded. She watched the girl closely, her gray-blue eyes studying her where she sat. "This is about Allan, isn't it?" She said finally.

She nodded. "I worry."

"I know you do—but you have to understand," she took her hand. "The cases that _I_ see in my volunteer work and at the hospital are the worst-case scenarios. For every man I see who has been mutilated by weapons, there are ten more who have few or no wounds at all."

"I know you are right, but… I still worry that he might be a one, and not a ten. I worry, and I am frightened."

Thunder rolled outside, low and quiet and carrying on and on into the distance until it faded.

"Allan's a strong young man, Djaq," Marian told her sternly. "I know him nearly as well as you do. He's strong and he's spirited—even if he _is_ hurt, I can't see him defeated by that."

"It still does not stop me from worrying."

"I don't think anything will. That's what's so wonderful about you—you truly care about and love your friends."

_Friends…_

That word was the same one she used to describe her relationship with Allan and Luke, and Robin and Marian. For the longest time that was what she called Will, as well, and even now she still told people they were friends as well as lovers. But hearing Marian speak it now made the word sound so alien, so strange. As if it didn't fit. She repeated the word in her head, imagined her friend's faces, and it felt _wrong._

She tried it again, tried thinking of them as mates. That odd shoe-on-the-wrong-foot feeling persisted.

Just calling them "friends", or any permutation thereof, didn't work anymore. Friends were people to whom a person was close, for certain. Sometimes they were even called "as close as family". A person knew and cared for these friends, maybe even loved them, but at the end of the day they were just that: _friends._ It seemed like such an astounding understatement now.

Maybe that was it. She worried for Allan not because he was _just_ her mate. None of them were.

"I do not think they're my friends," she said finally.

"_What?"_

"You and Robin, and my lads—I do not think that I can only call you my friends. I cannot even say that you are _like_ my family. You _are_ my family. You are all I have in the world. That is why I fear so much for Allan. For all of you. If I were to lose any of you…"

She felt the warm weight of an arm around her shoulders, and looked up to see Marian's smiling face. She squeezed her gently in a little hug.

"I'm glad," was all she said, smiling.

Marian kicked Djaq out before she could insist on staying to help clean up, and she walked home half thinking of what they'd talked about, and half staring at the sky waiting for the rain to come. She knew that everything Marian had said was right, that Allan was strong and that he would more likely than not come home safely. She also knew that she was worrying a great deal too much over things over which she had no control. All she could do was hope and pray and trust that everything was going to turn out all right.

Her newfound belief that her friends weren't simply her friends anymore filled her with a warm and soft feeling. She could never hope for a better group of people—her family. She was closer to them than she'd ever been to any other people in her entire life, not even her _real_ family growing up. There was always a kind of respectful fear that she felt for her father and her uncle, simply for being her elders and for being men, and she wasn't sure if she would ever have outgrown that or if she'd have kept it her entire life; her brother was her brother, and sometimes they got on well and other times they didn't. The people in her life _now,_ though, she chose because she liked them. A chosen family of sorts.

She decided she liked the idea of a family she chose for herself. It meant that she could love them because of who they were, and not for the sole reason of sharing family ties.

The thunder rumbling in the sky became louder and closer, the clouds growing into a solid dark gray mass overhead. Trees leaned to the side in the wind, dropping leaves and twigs on the ground. The rain came next, making little dark dots on the pavement and the roads.

When the storm picked up, she jogged the rest of the way home, arriving at the front door more than a little damp.

The post had come while she was out, and she picked up the little pile and leafed through it. The last letter on the bottom of the stack sent a wave of pure joy all the way through her body as she noted the return address, scrawled on the envelope in a familiar blocky hand.

_Second Lieutenant A. a-Dale, Brussels, Belgium._

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I felt it was time for more Marian and Djaq interaction, and for us to get a peek into her and Robin's relationship circa World War II. While this story was still in the early blueprint stage, I'd decided that Robin was going to be smuggling Jews out of Europe. I think it fits so well with the Hood character, in that he's doing something illegal and _extremely_ dangerous for the benefit of others.

It felt really strange writing Djaq as someone who _doesn't_ know everything about medicine, as well—it somehow feels like I'm committing a crime in throwing canon away so willy-nilly like that…

Oh, and sorry about the jab at Will's pale legs. I just couldn't resist. Every English person I've ever met has had _white-_white legs that practically glow in the dark. Even when they don't live in England. It's like it's a part of the DNA or something!


	11. December, 1942

OH NO! My brother got a Wii. We will never, _ever_ do anything productive again. This includes school, work, housework, hygiene, and fanfic. I haven't written anything in three days because we've been competing with each other. I'm not kidding when I say I've got "Wii Elbow". It hurts like a bitch…

My out-of-control chapters caught up with me—this one got _so _out of control that I had to cut it in half and turn it into two chapters. Oh, yes, this monster chapter is only _half of my original plan._

Disclaimer: If you recognize it, chances are I don't own it.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**December, 1942**

The light snowfall made even gray Nottingham look cheery and festive and lovely. Once again, Christmastime was growing nearer and everybody was in lighter spirits—especially with welcome news from the war front. It was a relief to hear of things going _well_ of late. Even the usually pessimistic and paranoid Much was humming carol songs in the kitchen earlier that afternoon, loudly and off-key, until every waiter and cook and one or two regular patrons in the restaurant threw something at him and told him to shut up.

Djaq looked up at the sky, a great big solid slab of light gray above her head, dotted with the silhouettes of lazy floating snowflakes. She still didn't like winter, but even _she_ had to admit that the dusting of flakes on the world was pretty—like a fine sprinkling of confectioner's sugar. It added a certain distinct charm to something she otherwise hated.

She smiled despite herself and hurried across the street, pulling her smart new coat closed around herself. She'd never intended to _get_ a new coat to begin with, determined to make the woolly green one Will gave her four years ago last another year. But the old thing was nearly falling apart, going rough at the edges, losing buttons, and worn all over. She also wasn't precisely the same size as an eighteen-year-old woman as she was masquerading as a boy at fourteen. So, reluctantly, she gave in and spent most of the last of her clothing ration points on a new coat. She was glad she had—it was warm and long and actually made for a female figure. How novel. And Will was so relieved she'd done it that he forgot to get cross with her for buying it herself instead of letting him be the gentleman and do it for her.

Of course, a week after she'd spent nearly all of her points on the coat, Will announced that they were going to spend Christmas with his auntie and Luke in Scarborough. Then she felt into an uncharacteristically girlish panic when she realized that she had _nothing to wear._ Somehow, the notion of meeting Auntie Annie in denim trousers and old trainers just didn't seem quite right to her, and she sought out Marian to see if she could borrow something.

"I don't see what the problem is," she groused as she watched the younger woman go through the spare bedroom's closed, searching through those piles of old clothes she'd never bothered to get rid of. "You've never cared much about this sort of thing before."

"I can hardly turn up to Will's aunt's house in overalls and Wellington boots, now, can I? And aren't girls supposed to try to make a good impression on their boyfriend's families?"

A grin lit up Marian's face and she lay on her belly on the bed like a teenager listening to some juicy gossip. "Well, I can honestly say this is a surprising change in you, Djaq. You're becoming a young lady! What'll be next, I wonder? Are we to call you Safiyyah, now? Is Will going to have to woo you with flowers and little birds?"

"If I did not need to borrow something so badly, I would come over there and kick you," she retorted angrily.

"I'm only teasing you," she said gently, getting up off of the bare spare bed and sitting on the floor with Djaq amongst all of those old boxes. "It'd help if I knew what you were looking for."

"Something that fits would help."

"I can take in or let out anything you need me to."

"You can sew?" Djaq asked, surprised. Marian made a face.

"My father made me learn needlework because he thought it was ladylike, and I never really liked doing it. It comes in handy these days, though." She took an opened box into her lap and started looking through it—it had old skirts in it. "You still didn't tell me what you were looking for."

"I am not terribly sure myself," she admitted, placing her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. "What does one wear in Scarborough?"

She thought for a moment. "Considering it's in North Yorkshire, I should think overalls and wellies were the standard dress code."

Djaq gave her an angry glare.

"I'm only being silly. Maybe only _partly_ being silly. I really don't think anybody will be bothered with how you look—"

"_I_ care," she declared.

Marian sat staring at her with her eyebrows raised.

"What?"

"Nothing—I was just thinking that seeing you like this is like looking back in time at myself some years ago. When Robin's father was still alive, and Robin and I were 'together'—" she made marks in the air with her fingers "—I always wondered what he'd think of me. If I'd be good enough. He liked me well enough as Robin's friend, but I always worried what he'd think of me as something more. So I tried to do things just so—dress, talk, act exactly right for him."

"What happened?"

She finger-combed her hair out of her face before continuing. "He died before he really got used to the idea. I suppose it upset me, but then I realized that the only person whose opinion actually mattered was Robin."

"I suppose you are right," she said. "It is a bit silly."

"Sweetly silly, though," Marian assured with a grin.

It was nearly dark by the time Djaq left her friend's house with several articles of hand-me-down clothing in a paper bag. The snow, by now, was a little thicker and the air grown icy from the lack of sun, so she took the bus home instead of walking.

She wasn't sure what to expect meeting Will's Auntie Annie—from what she'd heard, she was a terrific woman, but she still found herself nervous about the whole thing. That Auntie Annie was somebody that Will loved and respected made Djaq anxious to make a good impression on her. It was a rather strange and alien feeling for her, caring so much about the opinion of a woman she hadn't even met yet.

"Hello?" She called, walking into the dark house. It didn't look like anybody was here. "Will?"

"I'm right here."

The voice, unexpectedly, came from behind her and she jumped in surprise.

"What are you doing outside? Where were you?" She asked, pulling her shoes off and hitting the light switch just inside the door. Will followed her inside and shut the door behind him.

"I was at Robin's. Where were _you?"_

"Marian's."

Pause.

"We missed each other on the bus, didn't we?" She asked, surprised that they hadn't noticed one another.

"It's possible," he said. "I fell asleep on the way back and ended up making two trips around Nottingham. I was on the other end of town by the time I woke up and realized what'd happened."

"That explains it, then. I walked home from the restaurant." She set the bag down near the stairs where she'd remember to take it up later. "What were you doing at Robin's? Did he have work for you?"

"Um… not exactly."

"Not _exactly?"_

"There's a new group of people staying there," he began, rubbing the back of his neck in his usual nervous habit. "Two families—from Holland. They all had to leave everything they had behind. I found out that between them there are five children, and that they really had _nothing._ So I, uh… I made some things for them."

Djaq grinned. "Toys?" She asked.

He nodded, then reached for his coat, hanging on the wall, and pulled a little figurine from the pocket. He handed it to her; it was a little bird, painted white, with tail-feathers made of real feathers taken from their ducks and little black glass bead eyes. She gently stroked the perfect, tiny details with her finger—every little detail was precise and lovingly carved and beautiful. _Everything_ Will made was precise and beautiful.

"I made all sorts of things—animals, people, carts. This is the only one left."

"It is… very lovely," she said quietly, handing it back to him. "Those children are very lucky."

He casually placed the bird on the little wooden lip above the row of coat-hooks on the wall. "I wanted to do _something_ for them."

"You know Robin does not like it when people draw attention to his secret guests," she warned. "The fewer people who know about it, the better."

"I know—and I might not've bothered if I didn't see the kids. I may not be able to do much for the families, but I can give the children something. Those poor people lost everything to come this far, but their kids shouldn't have to suffer like that as well. It's not much, but it made them happy."

Even as her heart fluttered in her chest as she heard him talk this way, a dreadful sense of guilt soon followed it. Will _loved_ making toys, and he really liked children. They never talked about it, but she assumed he'd want children of his own someday. She couldn't bear to imagine what he might think or say, how disappointed he'd be, when he found out about—

"So… what were you at Marian's for? Tea and talk, or something else?"

"Nothing quite so noble as bringing toys to refugee children," she said. "I went to see about borrowing some clothes for the trip."

"I told you that you didn't have to do anything like that—"

"I know. But I wanted to."

"But Auntie Annie really wouldn't care. I promise."

"So you have said."

"What did she give you?" He asked, leaning over to peek into the bag at the foot of the stairs.

"Just some skirts and an old dress," she said with a shrug. "She is being very stingy with the stockings and wouldn't loan me a pair, though. Silk and nylon are apparently very scarce commodities, and women have to obtain their legwear on the black market."

Will couldn't help but snort. "Black market hosiery?"

She shrugged, kneeling to pick up the bag. "It sounds very silly, but it is true."

"What does she expect you to do?"

"She told me to shave my legs and have somebody draw a line up the back with an eye pencil." She turned to him with a stern look. "You had _better_ warm your hands first."

o…o

"D'you have any fives?"

"You asked me that two turns ago, and the answer is still the same—fish."

"I'm convinced you're lying to me," he grumbled as he picked a card from the little tiny pull-out table between them.

"You do not trust me?" Djaq asked, sticking out her lower lip in a mock pout. "I am _hurt,_ William."

He snorted softly and narrowed his eyes at her over the top of his cards. Now she was just teasing him mercilessly—she knew exactly what to do and what to say to drive him absolutely crazy. Normally, he'd get quite a bit of enjoyment out of it, but only because he'd be able to act on it. At the moment, he was being stopped from doing just about _anything_ by a very stern schoolteacher type old woman sitting in the seat across the compartment from them. She kept looking up from her knitting to send scathing looks in their direction every time either of them so much as laughed.

The old woman apparently disapproved of nearly everything about the young couple—their mixed-race status, the lack of wedding bands, their affectionate teasing, their close proximity, Will's little moustache, Djaq's bare legs…

It was clear early on that this was going to be a long, _long_ three hours. The time was already dragging and they'd barely been on the train for an hour.

At times like this, he desperately wished that he spoke more Arabic than he did, so that they could talk without rousing suspicion from the woman who kept watching them with a vulture-like expression. As it was, he only knew a few words and phrases. _Uhibukki_ was the first thing he'd learned to say—"I love you."

While she rearranged the cards in her hand, he watched her carefully. He had no idea how he'd gotten this lucky; Djaq was sweet and clever and funny and uncommonly pretty. Her dark hair feathered and curled softly around her face; her beautiful dark eyes were expressive and observant. She continually amazed him with her intelligence—she read absolutely everything she could get her hands on and he often wondered if there was anything the woman _didn't_ know as a result of this. He didn't know anybody else who could solve Poirot mysteries _before_ the Belgian detective did. She always downplayed herself as nothing special, but he knew better—she could well have had her pick of the boys and men in Nottingham. In _England._ And she picked him.

He was still amazed by his luck.

"Are you home in there?" She asked.

"Huh?"

She giggled; that sound made his chest tighten.

"I asked if Luke was going to come with your aunt to the station."

"I'd be surprised if he wasn't—he was _very_ happy when I told him you were coming. He and Auntie Annie, both, really." He smiled to himself, recalling the excitement in his little brother's voice when he'd phoned and told him that Djaq was coming to stay with them. Almost as happy as he'd been himself when she agreed to come to begin with; more than anything he was just glad that she'd be spending the holiday with him. The only thing that could have made it better was if Allan was here with them.

Of course, if Allan was about he'd probably poke fun of him for being such a sentimental sap, so perhaps it was all well that he wasn't.

"Good," she said with a smile. "I have missed him."

Will missed his brother _terribly_ as well, and he knew that Djaq thought of Luke as her own younger brother. The indefinite separation was difficult for them, particularly as travel was expensive and Will couldn't often make it to Scarborough and other than that their only way of communicating were letters and the occasional static-y telephone conversation. But despite his worries and doubts, he knew he'd made the right decision.

It'd still feel nice to have everybody in the same place for Christmas, though.

She was back on the card came, now, of course.

"Do you have any eights?"

He grumbled as he handed over the desired cards. "This is hardly fair."

She stuck her tongue out at him and he had to stop himself from leaning across the distance between them and biting it. He could actually _feel_ the woman across from them giving him dirty looks.

At the _very_ least, he thought, she was keeping her distaste nonverbal. He might be arrested for assault or murder if she actually _said_ anything.

"_Young lady,"_ she hissed, making them both look at her. Her disapproving frown was so intense that it looked as though her whole face would get sucked into her tightly puckered mouth. "Your _slip_ is clearly showing. You oughtn't to let _him_ see your _undergarments._ He may get ideas."

They both looked down and noticed that an entire two centimetres of gray silky fabric was visible beneath the folds of her pale green skirt. How scandalous. Instinctively, without thinking, he reached down and fixed it for her, giving her an affectionate pat on the knee before he went back to his cards.

"He already _has _ideas!" She screeched, apparently incensed that he had the poor sense to _touch_ her _leg._ "How disgusting. In my day a man could be arrested for touching a young lady in such a forward manner. But then, in _my_ day, ladies were still _ladies_ and had morals—unlike the girls of today who seem to think nothing of being _alone_ with young men…"

Will held his breath to keep himself from saying anything.

"Hey," Djaq whispered softly, drawing his attention. He looked questioningly at her, and his confusion only intensified when she began speaking in rapid Arabic. Very _seductive_ rapid Arabic. He had absolutely no idea what she was saying, but he liked it.

The woman's squinty gaze turned quickly back and forth between them.

There was a lull in her end of the conversation, but he found himself scrabbling in his brain for _something_ to say back. So he settled on gibberish that sounded as much like her native tongue as he could manage—their audience wouldn't know the difference, certainly. He punctuated it with a wink; Djaq giggled.

She spoke in low tones, but made sure that she could be heard across the compartment "We have to wait until she—" she jerked her head across the compartment "—is gone first."

The old woman covered her mouth with her hand. "Well, I _never!"_ She gasped indignantly. She quickly put her knitting into her bag and took her suitcase from the rack over her head, then, muttering quietly about lax morals and young people who can't control themselves, stomped out of the compartment to find a more _wholesome_ place to sit.

They waited a ten-count, to make sure she was gone, before laughing.

"What were you _saying?"_ He asked.

"I was reciting film lines," she admitted. "But she did not know that, and clearly neither did you."

"'Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn'?" He used his best Rhett Butler impression, which wasn't any good anyway.

"Yes," she snickered.

"Mine was just gibberish," he said. "But at least we can pretend it was something sexy."

"It did a good job getting rid of her, though."

"That it did," he agreed. "I hate that some people can't stand any kind of physical contact between couples who happen to be young, or unmarried—or both."

"Or perhaps she has a problem with a good English boy like you improperly involved with a young woman who is so obviously _foreign."_

This was one of her fears, and he knew it. The people in Nottingham accepted and respected her, but he knew just as well as she did that this wasn't guaranteed—or really even plausible—elsewhere. No matter what they did, no matter how wonderful a person she was, there would _always_ be people who disliked or mistrusted or downright _hated_ Djaq for the colour of her skin and the faith she identified as. It made him sick that people thought this way. That some people were so narrow-minded and cruel that they would not see past their own irrational prejudices to the person she was.

It made him angry, possibly angrier than it made her.

He leaned forward and closed the distance between them, kissed her forehead.

"Don't pay it any mind," he told her. "That's what you always tell me, isn't it?"

The smile in her eyes when she looked at him was an answer enough for him.

Even with the compartment to themselves, and apart from a swift, chaste kiss they managed to keep themselves under control and the remainder of the trip passed uneventfully. They played cards until Will grew tired with losing and Djaq's teasing him for his bad luck; after that, they sat leaning against each other, back-to-back and stretched out on the seat. He was absently sketching in an old notebook, and Djaq was concentrating on her crossword puzzle.

The gentle rumbling, rocking motion of the train nearly lulled him to sleep. He stopped drawing and started staring out of the window at the scenery zipping by—trees, towns, buildings, radio towers, and grassy flats all passing by in a blur of colours and shapes.

His mind wandered now—he wondered how Allan was faring. It'd been more than three weeks now since they'd gotten a letter from him. He'd moved from his safe base in Belgium to France, closer and closer to active combat; because of this, it was difficult for them to send him anything and hard for him to send them letters. It scared both of them, because receiving letters from their friend was the only way they had to be assured that he was still alive.

His last letter was about some friends he'd made with some American G.Is and his activities with his own regiment. He couldn't say a great deal about what he actually _did,_ though—letters were read and packages inspected before being sent on their way, and officials were censoring people's mail if they said too much.

As much as he worried, Djaq worried as well. He knew that she thought of him—of all of them—as her family. While he had Luke and Auntie Annie still, Djaq and Allan had… nobody. Just each other, and their friends.

Though, thinking on it, having _only_ their friends as family was hardly a bad thing. They were a very close-knit group, even given the distance between them. They weren't alone—far from it; he couldn't think of a better family to have.

He sighed; her warm weight at his back was comfortable. He felt her head lolling gently against his shoulders with the rhythm of the train, but other than that he couldn't feel her moving at all.

"Djaq?"

No response; he gingerly moved himself around so that he could see her, and realized that she'd fallen asleep there with her half-finished crossword in her lap. He moved the paper and absently brought his hand up to stroke her cheek with his thumb. She stirred a bit, mumbling something incomprehensible, and turned so she leaned sideways with her head against his shoulder.

He'd just let her sleep there, he decided. It wouldn't be long until they reached the station, anyway.

The train hissed slowly to a stop as the voice of the conductor announcing over the fuzzy speakers that they'd arrived in Scarborough.

"Hey," he gave her a gentle shake. "C'mon, Djaq, wake up."

She groaned quietly and turned her head further into him; he shifted again, trying to get her to get up. She passed a hand over her eyes and sat up with a yawn.

"Mm… are we there?" She asked groggily.

"We are—come on, I'll get your suitcase," he said. He waited for her to sit up before he stood himself and reached for their cases on the rung overhead. Djaq picked her own up before he could insist on carrying it himself.

They carefully picked their way down the aisles and wove around the other passengers all trying to get off the train through the same door at approximately the exact same time. The pair found a less-crowded place to leave the train and hopped down the metal stairs.

"There certainly are a lot of people here," she remarked somewhat redundantly as she looked around the crowded station.

"Yeah, well, there're a lot of people coming to see relatives or going on holiday this time of year."

"I will look out for Luke. I do not know what your aunt looks like."

"She's got very, _very_ red hair—she's really hard to miss." He began scanning the crowd for a familiar face. It might take them a while to find Auntie Annie or Luke through all of these people—maybe they'd have better luck once everybody left and they'd be able to find them easier.

"There they are!"

The excited, squeaking voice of a young boy drew his attention off to the left, where he saw a lanky thirteen-year-old boy running towards them and pushing his way unceremoniously through the people on the platform. A woman in a brown-and-white polka-dotted dress and bright red hair followed him.

"Mind yourself, love! I beg your pardon—you'll have to excuse him—pardon us!" She excused herself politely to the people the boy pushed out of the way. "They're not going anywhere—slow down, will you? I can't keep up with your long legs!"

"Lukey!" Will dropped his suitcase to catch and hug his charging little brother. He looped his arm around his neck and roughly tousled his hair.

"Don't call me that!" Luke protested, struggling to free himself from his brother's grasp. "I'm not a little kid anymore!"

He let him go, saying fondly, "You're still my little kid brother, though."

"Hi, Luke," Djaq said, moving up. The boy's face lit up when he saw her and he pulled away from Will to hug her. She hugged him back tightly with a huge smile on her face; after a moment, she pulled away and backed up. "Come here—let me have a look at you," she said in the tone of an older sister.

It occurred to Will, watching her scrutinize the boy and marvel at how much he'd grown, that this was the first time she'd seen her foster little brother in over a year and a half. She really did love him like a little brother. The separation and Luke's residence with Auntie Annie was equally hard—if not harder—on her as it was on himself.

"You are growing taller—that is not fair!" She exclaimed. "You have absolutely no business being taller than I am!"

"Is this your way of saying that you missed me?" He asked back.

"Of course it is." She pulled him forward and planted a small kiss on the top of his head. Luke turned a marvellous shade of magenta with embarrassment.

"Hello, there, William," the redheaded woman said nonchalantly. "Are you going to give your auntie a hug, or are you too grown up to do that in front of your lady friend?"

"Auntie Annie," he greeted her, grinning. He hugged the petite woman around the shoulders and kissed her freckled cheek. "It's good to see you again."

"Good to see you, as well." She gave him one last squeeze around the shoulders before letting him go; she put her hand on his cheek. "You're still too skinny, lad—didn't I tell you that you ought to eat more?"

"I can't help that, Auntie," he sighed. His aunt was always worried about him, about his health and his welfare and the fact that he was naturally skinny and couldn't put on weight.

"Maybe your ladyfriend ought to feed you more often," she teased. _Ladyfriend_ was Auntie Annie's term for a girlfriend—she always said that "boyfriend" and "girlfriend" sounded juvenile and used "manfriend" and "ladyfriend" instead. "Speaking of which—are you going to introduce us?" She prodded.

"Oh—right," he cleared his throat. "Djaq?"

The young woman looked up from fawning over Luke; when she met his gaze, she nodded and rumpled the boy's hair one last time before joining Will.

"Auntie Annie, this is Djaq Bseiso. Djaq—Anne Hamilton."

Auntie Annie put her pale hand out to the girl, who took it cautiously. "It's wonderful to finally meet you, dear," she said. "My nephews talk about you constantly."

Will blushed as Djaq smiled.

"Thank you, Miss Hamilton," the young woman replied softly. "I am pleased to finally meet you."

"Oh, please—none of the 'Miss Hamilton' rubbish. Call me Auntie Annie. Everybody does."

He wasn't completely sure that Djaq would be comfortable doing that—she always acted rather on-guard around adults, even after having been told not to be. Even though she was a young adult _herself._ It'd even taken her the better part of a year to stop calling Marian "Miss Knighton". But Auntie Annie was a very informal person.

"Or just Annie, if you'd prefer."

"Thank you—I shall try to remember that."

At Luke's urging, Auntie Annie herded them all out of the station and into the car park, where the four of them climbed into her trusty old dark green Siddeley motorcar. Will remembered when she first bought the car, six years ago—it had been something of a novelty, and for about six months the car was treated like an honoured guest in her house. If it hadn't been impossible to do so, she'd probably have driven the car up to the dinner table and parked it there at mealtimes. Owning a car was a symbol of wealth, and the fact that a _woman_ had the disposable income enough to afford it was a source of pride to his aunt.

Actually, it was a source of pride to him and Luke, as well. He was very fond of his auntie, _because_ she was such an unusual character. She never married and instead became an independent working woman; she always spoiled them, her sister's children, but she always said that the best part was giving the brothers back to their parents when she'd had enough. He knew that he should probably have been offended by this, but it was all a part of her charm.

Will freely let his brother have the passenger front seat in favour of sitting in the small back seat with Djaq. As soon as all of the doors were closed, the car was off, rumbling down the car park aisles and heading for the road. They stopped for a few moments at the attendant's booth while Auntie Annie had a brief conversation with the man inside—apparently somebody she knew.

He noticed Djaq next to him with a terribly confused look on her face.

"You all right?" He asked.

"Are they speaking _English?"_ She asked quietly, so as not to be heard.

At her question, he couldn't help but let out a short laugh.

"What?" She demanded crossly.

"No, it's not you!" He assured quickly. "It's just that… Yorkshire folk don't talk like normal people. I should've told you that—I'm sorry." Since he never gave much thought to the curious dialect of Yorkshire, something he understood quite easily, he hadn't thought to mention it to her. Now he felt badly about it; their peculiar speech was often hard enough for native English speakers to decipher, let alone for people for whom English was a second language.

Fortunately, Auntie Annie didn't always talk like that.

Another thing he'd neglected to mention about his aunt was that the woman was an _extremely_ aggressive driver. As soon as the car was out on the road, they were off at high speeds and the two of them were sliding back and forth across the bench seat with every turn and jerk of the car. Poor Djaq looked terrified, bracing herself between her own seat and the back of the driver's seat with a frightened look in her eyes. He kept hitting his own head against the roof of the car every time they went over a bump, making him curse his height and scrunch a little lower in the seat.

He decided he'd have to talk to Auntie Annie about her driving habits. Not that she'd listen to him, of course.

Once they'd gotten off the motorway and started driving through town, she slowed down a great deal—presumably because the risk of accidentally hitting a pedestrian was much greater here. Either that, or she didn't fancy running over somebody she actually knew. That would be impolite.

She parked rather haphazardly along the side of the road near a restaurant; Djaq remained stiffly pressed against the seats as if she hadn't realized yet that the car was no longer moving. He wondered if they'd have to wrench her from her perch with a prybar.

"Are you all right?" He asked gently.

"I am not letting go until the car's stopped."

"The car _is_ stopped."

Pause.

She blinked and looked about, surprised to see the scenery outside not zooming by in a blur. "Oh. Right," she said quickly, straightening herself out. "I think I saw my life passing in front of my face."

"I know her driving's a bit… mad. In fairness, she probably wouldn't've let anything happen to us."

"I should hope not."

Pause.

"D'you need any help letting go of the seats?"

"I will let you know once I have remembered how to work my hands," she said with a weak smile.

He opened the car door for her, and they followed his aunt and brother into the restaurant. The four of them had a leisurely lunch and talk. Will and Djaq updated Luke on the goings-on in Nottingham; Luke was telling them in rapid, jumbled speech about everything he was up to in Scarborough, about his new friends and school and the fact that his maths teacher was infinitely better than the one he'd had in Nottingham but still not nearly as good as Djaq was.

Will was surprised that Auntie Annie was keeping all of her questions about himself and Djaq to herself, instead of voicing them for the entire restaurant to hear. Instead of being reassuring, it worried him—he _knew_ she had questions about the young woman, but the fact that she was keeping them to herself probably meant that the questions were too personal to answer in a public setting.

Part of him really dreaded the inevitable interrogation.

He literally had to hold Djaq's hands behind her back to keep her from paying for her own lunch. Her pride and Auntie Annie's generosity had the potential to be a very ugly clash—riot police might need to be called. Instead, the dark-haired girl just nodded and kept her hands clasped calmly in front of her.

She balked when they walked back out to the car; Will found himself feeling sorry for her and didn't want to subject her again to his aunt's driving. He put a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

"Auntie?" He called.

The woman looked up across the roof of the car. "Yes?"

"Would you mind if Djaq and I walked back? I—I'd like to show her around."

She looked back and forth between the two of them before smiling and nodding. "Of course not."

He felt Djaq noticeably relax under his touch.

"Try not to stay out too late, mind," she warned as she slid into the driver's seat. "I'll see you at home later!"

They watched as she drove off.

"Do you plan on showing me off around town?" Djaq asked him with a nudge of her shoulder.

"Would you rather put up with my aunt's driving again?"

She shuddered. "No, thank you. I think my expected lifespan has been shortened enough for one day."

"I suppose I _should_ show you about—there's not a lot to see, though," he admitted, looking around the narrow streets surrounding them. Scarborough was nothing but a sleepy little seaside holiday town, and many of the businesses were closed off-season and the place was mostly empty apart from the actual residents. Around them were a lot of ancient stone roads and big brick buildings crawling with thick ivy—some of them so covered that they looked like leafy green boxes with roofs. The only point of interest within _miles_ was the Grand Hotel, which was only interesting because it was an enormous hotel and because Anne Brontë died there, which frankly didn't make it too astonishingly interesting anyway.

At least it was a nice afternoon—sunny and none too cold, and without the wind and drizzle so common in Yorkshire.

"We aren't going to sneak off into an alley someplace and kiss?" She asked, crossing her arms and leaning sideways against the brick wall.

He looked at her with his eyebrows raised in surprise.

"I am only joking."

"Oh?"

"Maybe _half_-joking," she teased. "And I do not mind if there is nothing to see—we can make something of it. We always do."

And he knew she was right; they always found ways to keep busy and to entertain themselves. She seemed just happy that she didn't have to get back into the car with Auntie Annie—he could hardly blame her.

He led her the long way around the high street, not far from where the Hotel overlooked the seaside, but the whole area was all but abandoned without the tourists and day-trippers. Wind blew in, sharply salty and cold, from across the water and other than the occasional passer-by and bus, there was little other activity. They _did_ stop once for a kiss in a doorway of a closed tea room, but that was all they did.

The orange-gold light of sunset accompanied them on the way to Auntie Annie's house—she lived in quite a large house considering that it was only her that normally lived here. Even with the addition of Luke, it was a rather big house. There were at least four bedrooms, one of which his aunt used as a sewing room, and an ample back garden. Here, like at their own home in Nottingham, the garden had been converted to a little miniature farm. Winter crops were lined the walk where there would previously have been flowers, and chickens and rabbits took up residence in what was once the back garden potting shed.

Auntie Annie made a huge shepherd's pie for dinner, and seemed markedly determined to feed to two of them until they spontaneously gained weight, or else fell unconscious—whichever happened first. After eating, they all stumbled, full-bellied and sluggish, into the sitting room where Luke and Annie introduced them to a board game called _Cluedo,_ which involved a fictional murder—Djaq's area of expertise.

The game was a great deal of fun to play, particularly when Djaq began offering up detailed and humorously ridiculous narratives about the method of the crime and peculiar motives. One of her scenarios involved the theft of a toothbrush, which somehow escalated to the brutal bludgeoning death of Dr Black in the billiards room with a wrench—though nobody bothered to ask why the murderer didn't use the most obvious weapon available and kill him with the snooker cue.

Soon they were all following her lead and coming up with increasingly absurd accusations, culminating in an animated scene between Will and Luke which demonstrated how the murder could have taken place in more than one room provided the victim didn't die right away and ran bleeding through the house.

Not long after the game ended, Luke began nodding off in his seat and was instructed to go to bed, leaving just Will and Djaq with Auntie Annie. But soon, Djaq, too, was beginning to grow tired despite her insistence that she was just fine. She was soon leaning against his shoulder, fast asleep.

"I'm not surprised," the redheaded woman said when they noticed. "It's been a long day for both of you."

Will nodded his reply and looked down at the small dark form curled up against him. He stroked her hair, carefully brushing a lock of hair from her forehead.

"She's very lovely," she remarked.

"She is, isn't she?" He smiled down at her as she slept.

"The cutest thing I've ever seen. Clever, as well. You're a lucky man."

He felt himself blushing at this. "I've definitely noticed my luck. Some days I wonder what she sees in me," he confessed.

"Come, come, now, dear," she scolded gently with a soft cuff to the back of his head. "You don't give yourself nearly enough credit. You've grown up to be a fine young man. Bright, handsome, sweet-natured, talented—I'll bet she sees all of these things in you."

His blush deepened.

"It's true you know. You're a good lad."

"Thanks, Auntie." He was still waiting for her to start pelting him with questions about Djaq. He wasn't sure how much Luke had told her about the beginning of their relationship—about how he spent the first year and a half of their friendship believing she was a boy, and doubting his own sexuality because of it.

He felt more than a bit squeamish about the idea of talking of that part of their relationship with his aunt. The only person he didn't feel uncomfortable talking about it with was Allan—and then it was only because he realized, looking back on it, that Allan must have felt the same way about their friend before her true sex was revealed.

Really, with hindsight being much clearer, he noticed past behaviours in Allan that were similar, or the rough equivalent, to his own hopeless pining. He could often find Allan watching her every move just as carefully as he did, taking in everything about her; his friend's frequently immature and silly behaviour around her was his way of either trying to impress her or just make her laugh. It was clear to him that both of them had some of the same feelings for Djaq—though his old friend was much more prone to passing fancies with girls, so he wasn't entirely certain how strong, or indeed how genuine, his feelings were. Even so, he didn't dismiss Allan's feelings as any less than his own.

Still—that was his and Allan's territory, and not something he was willing to divulge to Auntie Annie.

"Luke told me that your Djaq used to work for that dishy Robin Locksley, before he had to sell his horses."

_Dishy Robin Locksley_—only his aunt would be so unabashed.

"She did," he answered. "And then she was raising animals and planting vegetables for him after that."

"He also told me that you all thought she was a lad."

The young man made a mental note to put toothpaste in all of his brother's socks.

"Yeah, we uh… we did. She was—well, it's a long story. And it's not really my story to tell."

"Understood."

Pause.

"I'm not going to pry, love. I might tease you, but in the end it's your business. You'll tell me what you feel comfortable telling me."

He sighed quietly, relieved by this. Djaq slumped against him, nearly falling off of his shoulder and into his lap.

"You should probably…"

"Yeah—I'll take her upstairs and put her to bed," he sighed. He stood up carefully, then bent to lift the sleeping woman off the sofa. She unconsciously snuggled closer and murmured something he recognized as meaning "sleepy". "After I'm done, I can make up a bed on the sofa—or else I could bunk down with Lukey."

Auntie Annie raised her eyebrows and smirked slightly. "Is that your sleeping arrangement at home?"

The questioned surprised Will so much that he nearly dropped Djaq on the floor. _"What?"_

"Do you sleep in different rooms at home?"

"Well… no, but…" he stuttered, the intense blush returning to his face.

There was a knowing sparkle in Annie's soft gray eyes as she grinned at him. "Nothing new under the sun, William." She stood and bent around the limp sleeping body in his arms to kiss him on the cheek. "Goodnight, dear."

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I did something in this chapter that I haven't done in this story so far: I bent history. The board game _Cluedo_ (or _Clue)_ wasn't around until 1949. But we can pretend, right? RIGHT?? I thought it would make for a cute little scene. And, really—that's how my friends and I play _Clue._ It more or less goes without saying that alcohol is sometimes involved.

Stockings were a very scarce commodity during World War II. Silk, rayon, and nylon—the materials used to make them—were also used in the manufacture of parachutes and other necessities for war, and were tightly restricted for civilian use. Women started shaving their legs and getting a friend (or a boyfriend with a steady hand and a lot of self-control) to draw a line up the back with an eye pencil to mimic seams.

It's also true that cars were a huge status symbol in those days—especially in the UK. Not many people owned one, and that Auntie Annie has one is unusual and a symbol of disposable income.


	12. December, 1942: Silent Night

I _finally_ found a full-time job! This has all the obvious perks, except that this leaves so little time for the obviously important things in life. Like fanfiction. I will try my hardest to keep up a regular posting schedule as best as I can, though.

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the following—Will Scarlett, Djaq, the BBC's Robin Hood, World War II, or Christmas.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**Christmas, 1942**

Djaq yawned and stretched as the sleep cleared out of her head. At first, looking around the completely unfamiliar room, she had no idea where she was. Then memory returned in a rush and she remembered that they were at Auntie Annie's house. She just barely remembered falling asleep downstairs last night, and now she was in bed and stripped down to her slip, with yesterday's clothes folded neatly on top of her suitcase. Will's doing, she imagined.

Where was he? She sat up and looked around; she was on one side of the double bed, and the dip in the blankets on the other side said that somebody spent the night next to her.

She rubbed her eyes tiredly and yawned again. There was no clock in the room, so she had no idea what time it was, but her guess was that it was most likely late. Everybody else was probably awake, but too nice to come and wake her up. She got out of bed and pulled her wrinkled and slept-in slip over her head as she padded over to where her suitcase was atop the dresser.

Once dressed in clean clothes and refreshed, she headed downstairs, expecting to find Will and Luke arguing about something, but everything was very quiet. She wasn't sure if anybody was home. Surely they wouldn't just leave her here…

"Morning, Djaq," a cheerful Auntie Annie said as she wandered into the kitchen. The woman was standing at the sink in a blue shirtdress and an apron, cleaning up the dishes from breakfast.

"Good morning," she replied quietly, looking around for the others.

"Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, very well, thank you. Where are…?"

"The boys? Oh, I sent them into town on some errands. They were getting a bit antsy, so I wanted them out of the house before they broke something. I forget sometimes how rambunctious they can be when they're in the same room together."

She smiled a tiny little smile—that was definitely true.

"They shouldn't be too much longer—unless one of them's killed the other by now." She wiped her hands on her apron and turned around to face the young woman, smiling. "Would you like some breakfast?"

"I—yes, please," she said softly. Were she at home with Will or at Marian's, she would have insisted on helping or asked if there was anything she could do, but today she just sat quietly at the kitchen table and watched her pour her a cup of tea from the teapot on the counter.

"Do you care for eggs, dear?"

"Only if you can spare them," she replied, going with her reflex. "I would not want to use up your rations."

"Don't worry about it. My hens lay more eggs than Luke and I can eat."

"Thank you."

They fell into a silence as Djaq sat at the kitchen table waiting for her tea to cool, and Auntie Annie stood at the stove frying eggs. She wasn't sure how to act around her—she wasn't a normal adult, but she wasn't somebody like Marian, either, around whom she felt wholly comfortable and at ease.

She hadn't been completely sure _what_ to expect of Auntie Annie, but she probably wasn't expecting this fiercely independent woman with fiery red hair and the twinkle in her eye. It shouldn't have been surprising, but it was. Of course, knowing the woman was well over fifty gave the young woman a few preconceived notions about her; she guessed that she might be quite rigid and traditional, possibly worrying about her ethnicity and she and Will's shamelessly unwed bed. But she was none of those things.

So she wasn't completely sure how she should behave.

A plate slid down in front of her with two fried eggs and some tomato. She thanked Auntie Annie and ate quietly, aware that the woman was watching her across the table over her own cup of tea. She didn't like that, and resisted all urges to snap at her.

"Is everything all right?" She asked.

"Fine, thank you," Djaq replied.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I just… I get the impression that I make you nervous, dear."

She paused, then put her fork down on the plate. "Maybe a bit," she admitted.

"You needn't worry, you know. I don't bite—I'm not dangerous. Though there are some parties who would insist that I'm dangerous when placed behind the wheel of a car."

She smiled a little bit.

"Is there something troubling you? You can tell me. I shouldn't like you to feel so uncomfortable in my home."

There was a long pause between them as Annie waited for a response and Djaq thought on how to reply to her. She settled on honesty.

"I suppose I am just a little unsure of myself," she admitted, feeling strangely out of character. She'd been nervous around people before, but never like this. It was an alien feeling, and she hated it. "You are… not what I expected."

She looked up and was surprised to see the woman leaning back in her chair with a smile on her face. "Am I really? Well, I suppose I surprise a lot of people that way. May I ask what you _did_ expect of me?"

"I'm not sure myself, really—I expected you might be a little less welcoming. A bit more traditional. I am surprised you let Will and I stay in the same room." Immediately after the words left her mouth, she regretted it—she didn't even know if Auntie Annie was aware that she and Will slept in the same bed last night.

"I'm not bothered by any of it," she assured. "I've always been very relaxed about these matters. And to be honest—I was concerned myself with what impressions you might get from me."

This was surprising to hear. _"Me?"_

"Aye, dear. You. My nephews think the world of you—and I know that they don't assign such high value to somebody very easily."

"That is true," she agreed. Luke and Will didn't have enormous hoards of friends, and instead just had very few very _close_ friends that they cared very deeply for. Such was the case for Will and Allan; even for Will and herself.

"You really love those boys, don't you?"

"I… am very fond of them both, yes. Though obviously in different ways."

"Luke sometimes calls you his big sister—there are people here who think that I have a niece called 'Jack'." She shook her head and looked down into her now-empty teacup, tapping lightly on the sides with her fingernails. "They both really adore you. I wasn't sure what sort of a woman it would take to steal young William's heart, but I knew she'd have to be something special."

Djaq bit her lower lip and looked down bashfully.

"And she certainly is."

How was she supposed to respond to that? She didn't respond well to such outright compliments—she wasn't sure what she was supposed to do or say. "I—I—"

"You needn't say anything. I like you, Djaq—it's as simple as that."

She gave a shy smile. "I think I could like you, as well."

"Provided I don't intimidate you, eh?"

Voices up the back garden drew their attention away from their conversation and towards the back door; through the window, she could see two figures arguing up the garden path. The boys were back.

"Auntie! We're home!" Luke called as they walked into the house. "They didn't have your watercolours like you wanted, but the lady at the shop said to come back after the holiday and they might have more in," the boy said apologetically on his way into the kitchen.

"It's all right, Lukey—I didn't really need them anyway."

"Don't call me that! And why'd you send us out for 'em?"

"I wanted to get you boys out of my house before you brought the whole thing down!"

"You couldn't just send the littler one and let me stay here?" Will asked from his position, leaning against the doorframe between the back hall and the kitchen with his coat under one arm.

"No—because then I'd never hear the end of it from _him._ Besides, your ladyfriend only just woke up, so you'd've been sitting here the whole time forced to converse with your senile old auntie."

Djaq had to turn away and press her hand against her mouth to keep from laughing. She really _could_ learn to love Auntie Annie, if only for her wit.

"So instead you let Lukey drag me all over town to brag about me to his mates and tell them that his 'sister' is also visiting."

"Stop calling me 'Lukey'!"

"Do you really tell people that I am your sister?" She asked.

"Well… yeah. I mean, you're my brother's girlfriend, I should think that's close enough. Right?" The younger boy frowned and scratched his dark head, thinking. "Or is there a protocol that has to be observed here? I wouldn't know, since you're Will's first girlfriend."

She looked at Will and he looked at her, and both of them shrugged as a way of answering.

"Damned if I know," he said.

"Mind yourself, William."

"Sorry, Auntie."

There was a gentle _thump_ against the house, and outside there were some more voices from the back garden—it sounded like four or five teenaged boys, all walking up the garden path and arguing about… something. Another _thump!_ sounded against the side of the house beneath the kitchen window. Auntie Annie rose from the table and took the remaining breakfast dishes to the sink, then threw open the window, stood on her toes, and stuck her head out.

"_You lads stop standing in my garden and stop kicking that bloody football against the side of my house, or I'll come out there and beat all of you to death with my tire iron!"_

The unexpected bellowing made the three of them inside the house jump; Djaq wasn't completely sure, but she thought later that they might have actually levitated at that moment. It certainly seemed to have the desired effect on the now terrified-looking adolescents, all of them suddenly very eager to stand on the brick path. Shouts of, "Sorry, Auntie Annie" and "We didn't mean to" were expressed amongst the boys outside.

"I told you not to do that anymore!" Luke shouted out the door. "She's not kidding, either!"

She got up from the table and stood near Will to see if she could look out the door. She was surprised to see the boys outside ranged in age from thirteen all the way up to what appeared to be seventeen. Quite a range. "Friends of his?"

He nodded. "I think they've come to see this mysterious sister that they've never heard of until lately."

"Or perhaps they just _like_ him."

"That's a possibility." He uncrossed his arms and ruffled her hair gently. "Morning, by the way. Sorry I wasn't there when you got up. Auntie just sort of kicked us out, and you don't argue with her."

"I imagine not—she can be terribly threatening when she wants to be, can't she?"

Another nod.

"I do seem to have slept awfully late."

"Well, you were pretty tired last night and you were dead asleep when I got up. I didn't have the heart to wake you," he said with a small smile.

She smiled back, but refrained from kissing him there in front of his aunt and half a dozen teenaged boys now crowded by the back door. He really was sweet—and she loved him for it.

"We've got an odd number, though!" She heard Luke protest.

The voice that replied was so heavily accented that she had to strain to understand what was being said—she wasn't entirely certain if Yorkshire English was in the same linguistic family as the language she spoke. "What 'bout your brother's girlfriend… sister… _thing?_ This 'Jack' person what you've been goin' on about all the time. She really does exist, doesn't she?"

"'Course she does!"

"Well do we get to meet 'er or what?"

"You can if you want, but it's up to her if she wants to come or not—"

This seemed like as good a place as any to step in. She squeezed into the narrow back hall, already crowded with just two loose pairs of shoes, Will, his brother, and a coat. "Something wrong, Luke, or are you just arguing with the back door?"

"Who're you?" The boy piped up as he saw her appear in the doorway. He had sandy-blond hair and a fading tan and he looked like he might have been fifteen.

"That's Djaq, you idiot."

With more than a hint of amusement, Djaq noted that Luke seemed to take on the curious Yorkshire speech while he spoke to his friends, but not when he was in the house—not unlike Auntie Annie had when she spoke with her friend outside the station car-park.

"Oh. Hi. D'you know Luke fancies you?"

Luke turned his head to the side and made a choking noise; she snorted loudly, taken aback by the other boy's statement.

"Ew! No! Djaq, don't believe 'em!" He protested between his theatrically exaggerated gagging noises. "You guys're sick—it's just Djaq!"

She smirked and crossed her arms.

"Do we 'ave enough people for a game 'r not?" Another one of the boys piped up from somewhere near the back of the group.

"Game?" Djaq asked.

"Football," he clarified. "We haven't got enough people for a whole game 'less we get two more people. Not much fun, three-on-three."

Her eyebrows rose. "Have I just been conscripted?"

"I think we both have," Will replied.

"You might have asked first," she reprimanded the younger boy. He looked properly scolded for a few seconds.

"So… d'you wanna come?" He asked.

"I would not mind," she said with a smile.

"Isn't anybody going to ask me if _I_ mind if my houseguests abandon me in favour of Yorkshire mud?" Auntie Annie demanded, having been forgotten at the sink while she washed the pans and teapot from breakfast.

"_Do_ you mind, Auntie?" Luke asked, making his big blue eyes so wide that somebody might have mistaken him for that little cartoon Bambi.

"Oh, good heavens, no. At my age, I can't kick a football about without worrying I might break a hip." She dismissed them with a wave of a soapy hand. "I can't expect the three of you to stay here all week—go on, have some fun. I'll be fine here with those watercolours I didn't need more of."

o…o

From her place in her and Will's shared room, Djaq could listen to the conversation downstairs as she dressed. Actually, it was more like a lot of shouting than it was a conversation. Either way, it was amusing while she towelled her wet hair and put her clothes on. She'd never been to an English church before, so this evening would be something new and different. Even in Nottingham, she stayed home on Christmas Eve while others went to the service, and observed the holiday herself in her own way.

"Lukey, tuck in your shirt and fix your tie—no, not that way! The skinny bit's longer than the wide bit!"

"Stop calling me 'Lukey', Auntie!"

"Fix your tie, and I'll think about it."

"I'll have to re-tie it… if I can't make it do what I want, I could just wear my blazer buttoned over it and nobody'll see. Have you seen it anywhere? I left it on the back of the chair in the kitchen—"

"I moved it so I wouldn't spill anything on it."

"You can't keep moving my things about, that's how I lose things!"

"Well, _you_ can't go leaving your good clothes in the kitchen! Leaving things in the kitchen is a good way to make sure they get ruined!"

"I think I tied this wrong. It's inside-out…"

She shook her head and laughed quietly to herself. If she didn't already know differently, she might be disinclined to believe that Luke and Annie weren't mother and son. She slung the towel off of her shoulders and ran a comb through her hair. The dress she picked for the night was plain dark red wool, warm and comfortable for the cold night. She held a few bobby pins in her mouth as she arranged her hair and then pinned it all in place.

Now dressed, she trotted downstairs with an eye pencil in her hand, looking for some help with her _not-_stockings.

At the bottom of the stairs she was nearly run right over as Auntie Annie ran past her, on her way completing the dozen or so things she still had to do before they left for church.

"I'm sorry, Djaq!" She called apologetically from the kitchen as she clattered about. "I have about ten thousand things to do before we go!"

"Do you need any help with anything?"

"Oh, no, dear, don't worry yourself. It might look like I'm a bit frazzled but it's not so bad."

"Just as long as you don't get in the way. She'll run you right down and keep going. Like a hit-and-run accident on the motorway."

Luke stood by the stairs, fiddling with his tie—which was still uneven. He looked like a miniature version of Will, from his dark hair and light eyes and pale complexion to his lanky frame and too-long legs. Sometimes it was _scary_ how much alike they looked.

"You look very smart," she said.

He grinned. "Thanks."

"Where _is_ your brother?" Came Annie's voice. "I sent him out on a simple errand and he's gone for more than half an hour! If he's not back soon, I'm sending one of you out to look for him!"

"If he knows what's good for him, he'll probably just meet us at church and avoid the crazy," he muttered to his tie; she snickered quietly. "I give up. I'll just button my coat over it, and nobody'll know the difference. Right?"

She shrugged. "Maybe."

It looked like it might be a little while before she could get her seams drawn on—poor Annie was incredibly busy, and she wasn't sure she quite trusted Luke on her legs to ask him to do it for her. Instead, she decided to find a place where she wouldn't be in the way, so that she could wait out the madness.

The sofa in the sitting room was as good a place as any; she sat quietly, watching Auntie Annie ping-pong back and forth as she went about her business. She asked once more if she was _sure_ she didn't want any help, but she refused again and she dropped the subject rather than irritate the woman.

Somebody came in through the front door. "I'm back!"

"Oh, finally—hello, William," Auntie Annie said as she walked quickly from one room to the other, passing in front of him. "Put that in the kitchen and stay out from under my feet."

After a moment, Will wandered into the sitting room. "That _was_ my aunt, wasn't it?"

"If it was a red-haired blur in a black dress, then yes," she said. "She is a little bit hectic, isn't she?"

"She just tries to get everything done more or less all at once. And somehow she always manages it. Sometimes I'm convinced there's more than one of her."

"She keeps a spare in a drawer someplace," she joked, toying with the eye pencil in her hands. "Like a tire."

He laughed and walked over to the sofa to stand next to her, already dressed for church in his dark gray suit—he'd long since grown out of the green one she'd seen him in at the Christmas party two years ago. He noted her twirling the pencil in her fingers and asked, "D'you need…?"

"Hum? Oh, this… I was hoping your aunt might help me, but she has enough going on at the moment." Pause. "You could do it, if you promise to behave yourself," she teased.

"It's nice to know you have so much faith in me," he said as he stood back up, dragging a chair over. "Stand up here."

She handed him the pencil and stood up on the chair, holding her skirts up slightly in the back with one hand and keeping herself balanced with the other hand clutching the back of the chair. When he put a hand on her bare leg, she squeaked and nearly walked right off the chair.

"Your hands are _cold!"_ She hissed.

He snorted behind her, but was kind enough to rub his hands together to warm them before touching her again. She squeaked again and twitched when the point slid up the back of her leg.

"Try not to move," he said, his speech slurred around the pencil lid in his teeth. "Or you'll have crooked seams."

Another squeak. "It tickles!"

"Well… _try_ not to move anyway."

But try as she might, she couldn't keep from twitching her leg every time the pencil moved up the back of her calf. She giggled and bit her lip, _trying_ not to move and apparently failing miserably at it.

"Dammit," he growled, moving his hands away from her leg. "Crooked. You're too ticklish."

"I am sorry," she giggled as she stepped down from the chair, trying to look around at the back of her leg to see how bad the "seam" was. The black line was wobbly and doubled over in places and was so crooked that it came almost to the outside of her leg. "That _is_ bad."

"If you want to clean it off, we can try again," he offered.

She nodded and went upstairs to the bathroom. She grabbed a sponge and a bit of soap and carefully tried to wipe the dark makeup off of her skin without getting her clothes wet.

"Having trouble with something?"

She looked up to see Annie standing in the bathroom door.

"Washing my seams off," she answered without really thinking about how much of a non-sequitur it sounded. "I mean…"

But apparently she knew what it meant.

"Going bare-legged?" The woman asked, surprised. "In this cold? Goodness, my dear that must be miserable. You _hate_ cold weather!"

"That I do. But I haven't any stockings—I don't own any of my own, and my friend was being stingy and did not let me borrow any. I normally just get Will to draw a line on my leg, but… sometimes it takes more than one go."

Auntie Annie sighed and clucked quietly. "Such a talented artist that lad is, and yet he can't draw a straight line on a lady's leg. Of course, it's possible he's doing it badly on purpose, just so he can do it again," she suggested with a cheeky wink.

Her eyebrows climbed her forehead—she hadn't thought of it that way before. It wouldn't surprise her.

"Finish up, and then wait here a moment," the woman ordered.

"What—?"

"Just wait."

As Djaq was drying herself, Annie walked back into the room with a pair of stockings in her hand.

"Here—wear these. It is too cold to be walking around in bare legs."

She blinked, staring at the garments as if they were something alien and unfamiliar. "I can't take—"

"Sure you can."

"I do not—"

"Come, now—don't be silly. I shan't have you coming down with pneumonia on Christmas. Now put them on so we can get moving. Services start in an hour and we have to walk to the church."

Resigned, she thanked her and took the offering. There was no arguing with Auntie Annie when it came to charity; she was much like Marian in that respect. She was going to make sure that Djaq wore those stockings whether she liked it or not, even if it meant stapling them on. And in truth she was happy not to have to go outside in the cold and let her legs freeze. Annie left her again with a smile and a little nod.

"Your aunt is the nicest woman in the world," she declared upon coming back downstairs, finding Will in the sitting room where she left him, fixing Luke's tie for him.

"Yeah? What'd she do for you?" The younger of the two asked, jerking his head away from his brother's hands.

"She loaned me stockings."

"Oh," he said, sounding like he was disappointed in the mundane nature of his aunt's generosity.

In a rush, Auntie Annie herded them all out of the house, joining a small group of people all walking in the same direction—towards the church. The air was filled with the sounds of chatting ladies, the gruff conversations of men, and laughing children. There was the loud, shrill talk of teenaged girls and the rough grunts of their male peers. Out-of-town relatives reintroduced themselves to locals. A group of younger children—perhaps ten years old—were singing carol songs, using as many different versions of the lyrics as there were children in the group.

Luke walked alongside his friends, the boys they'd all played football with a few days before; Annie walked with her own friends and acquaintances from town. Will, too, had a few people that he knew around town. Djaq, feeling somewhat out of place, walked quietly near him but kept her distance so as not to get underfoot. She didn't know many of these people; she wasn't really _afraid_ of them, but she didn't want to get in their way, either.

Even given the past few days, she wasn't completely comfortable with how she might be regarded by the people in Scarborough. Her exposure to the locals had been rather limited, apart from a few trips into town with Will, and then once by herself just to walk about. The people she _did_ meet were nice enough to her—cheerful and personable and not as on-guard around her as she feared they might be. Some people had stared at her, though, surprised by the unfamiliar face in an otherwise small town, but nobody said anything or pulled faces. The more rational part of her mind said that they were just surprised to see a stranger in their town off-season; but the really awful, pessimistic part of her considered the possibility that they were just outright shocked by the Scarlett boy's girlfriend, too shocked to say what they actually meant.

Actually, she was beginning to think that it was big cities like London that would be cruel to her, and smaller places like Nottingham and Scarborough that would be far more accepting of her differences; once the novelty of her differences wore off, she was just another person. Or maybe it was that Londoners and people in big cities were more likely to have had bad experiences with foreigners—or worse, to think of them as _vermin—_and were therefore more likely to judge her. Whatever the reason, the fact still remained that her pervious experiences with prejudice were going to affect her for the rest of her life.

Thinking that way, it was sort of… sad.

Tonight was not a night for sadness, she reminded herself. It was Christmas Eve. Such thoughts could and _would_ be put off for a few days.

A few feet away, Will was fielding questions about her from his friends. They were asking him where the hell he met a _girl_ and how the hell he managed to keep her interested. She snickered quietly to herself; poor Will could be quite socially awkward, particularly around girls, a trait she'd seen in action more than a few times while she was still masquerading as a boy. It seemed his seasonal friends knew this, as well. Part of the reason she suspected that he wasn't a stuttering mess around her was because they had a friendship already established before her sex was revealed. From there, she supposed it was easy—or easi_er_—for him to build on that relationship.

Or something like that.

"So… where'd you meet her, then?" One of the two young men was asking him. She thought she saw Will flinch slightly. They always had to come up with creative and roundabout ways of answering this question, since neither of them much liked revealing Djaq's eighteen-month masquerade as a boy.

"She was working for a friend—in his stables—and then started working at a restaurant in town."

"Oh, well, that's not very interesting."

"I didn't say it was," he replied with a little nod in her direction. She smiled back; if only they knew.

After a few more minutes of this chatter, Will eased away from his two companions in favour of falling back in the crowd and walked the rest of the way to the church with her.

The church was a massive, ancient gray stone building with two mismatched spires, one at either side in the front. Moss grew on some of the stones, and grass between the cracks, and whole areas were covered with that clinging ivy. To one side of the churchyard, there was a small graveyard full of weathered old headstones; some of them were so old that the writing on their faces was worn low, or even completely smoothed away. This one church must've served the entire community for hundreds of years.

Everybody in town apparently knew the vicar—an old man with white hair and a wrinkled face, dressed in a long black robe that covered him completely—and he greeted nearly all of the arriving parishioners by name, and asked the names of the unfamiliar relatives and visiting friends.

A little shiver coursed over the back of her neck at the thought of meeting the man.

"It's all right," Will murmured in her ear. "Just follow me."

She nodded and gripped his arm tightly, watching the vicar as if she feared that any minute he might leap at her and try to force her to convert. Of course, she knew it wouldn't happen, but she was still uneasy around so many strange people.

While Auntie Annie was engaged in small talk with the vicar, Will led her quickly into the church without being noticed by him.

It was chilly in here, nearly as cold as it was outside; almost nobody bothered to take their coats off. People were filing into the pews, reserving seats for family members and friends who had yet to arrive by placing objects on the seats—hats, gloves, coats, and so on. Djaq craned her neck to look up at the vaulted ceiling over her head, rising higher and higher into the blackness above them, untouched by the lights on the floor. It felt very unusual to her, being in a house of God without having her head covered—she felt partially naked. She was never required to wear the veil at all times, as many girls were, but she was always required to wear one when she entered a mosque. Perhaps she ought to have brought a scarf to cover her hair with…

But then, perhaps not. It would only have made her stand out, and with the world the way it was today she imagined Allah had more important things to worry about than the state of one young woman's hair.

Luke and Auntie Annie joined them shortly, sliding into the long wooden pew as the woman quietly chastised her older nephew for slipping past the vicar without at least saying hello and introducing him to his "ladyfriend."

For a while, Djaq occupied herself with people-watching, and then with spotting the most ridiculous hat in the building. English women wore such peculiar hats on formal occasions. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, parties—it was like there was some unspoken nationwide competition to see who could get away with wearing the most ridiculous accessory on her head.

Eventually, the congregation was all settled, and the vicar walked up the aisle and stood at the altar and the service began.

She felt quite _lost_ through most of it. There was a lot of standing and sitting. Some singing, which didn't even _sound_ like singing. A lot of quotations were read from their Bible, some of which she recognized and others that were unfamiliar. The only thing she didn't feel completely lost in was prayer—it was, after all, to the same God.

She listened to the story being told with a piqued interest that even surprised _her._ The Christian's version of the story of the Prophet Yeshuah was patently ridiculous; she'd heard it a few times, but never really paid attention to it before. Now she was listening intently to the vicar at the front of the church as he told the story of a virgin who birthed the son of Allah—of God—in the stables of an inn because the inn had no more rooms to let.

There was even a little play put on to tell the story. A man in a dressing gown and a woman with a pillow shoved down her robe sat in a pile of hay behind the vicar; a few ducks, two very small sheep, and a dog represented every animal in the barn. Animals in a holy place—it was amusing, but she couldn't help but think that if somebody tried that in a mosque, the imams would throw fits about defiling holy ground.

Of course, this wasn't even the strangest part. To her, the oddest part of their belief was that a prophet was actually the son of Allah. Maybe she ought to read their whole Bible someday—she'd read a few stories in it before, and for all of the similarities between it and her Koran, there seemed to be just as many differences. She had never been a devoutly religious person, never been even a _slightly_ religious person—it had been many, many years since she'd been to any religious service of any kind, and she didn't participate in the ritual prayers or cover her hair, or fast during Ramadan, largely because she could never be completely sure when it was from year to year—but the words, memorized from her holy book, echoed in her head even as she listened to the vicar: _"He did not beget, nor was He begotten."_

It seemed so strange that anybody might believe otherwise.

Maybe they meant a metaphorical son. An adopted son, possibly the way Allah thought of all of his followers. And somewhere along the lines, this part of the story was lost in translation. It seemed plausible—far more plausible than the idea that Allah would beget as mortal men, or that a virgin could bear a son.

And then there were all of the rest of those traditions—bringing trees indoors, taking lights _outdoors,_ hanging shiny baubles and different evergreens all over the house, Father Christmas—all throwbacks from a time when pagan beliefs mixed with their early beliefs.

Even still, despite the profound—nearly _laughable—_absurdity that were some Christian beliefs, she found herself clinging fast to the message of this particular holiday, of peace on earth. She was familiar with that, at least. Peace, love. Forgiveness. The teachings of the Prophet Yeshuah; _those_ she believed in. How could she not?

Just as the three Wise Men—who were really Magi and whom she didn't have the heart to point out were actually priests of Zoroaster—were approaching the baby, played by a teddy bear wrapped in a bath towel, with their gifts, her attention began to wander again. In front of her, an older man was falling asleep on his wife's shoulder as the woman kept discreetly righting him, only to have him fall on the shoulder of the gentleman on his other side, who would also try to set him upright. Watching them passing the man back and forth between them was probably far funnier than it should have been, and she found herself trying to keep from laughing in church. She chanced a glance to the side and saw Will biting down on the knuckle of his index finger as he, too, watched the people in front of them play "hot potato" with the sleeping man. When the young man noticed her looking at him, his resolve apparently failed him miserably and his shoulders began to quake with suppressed laughter; she put a finger to her lips, silently telling him to keep quiet, but laughter was starting to bubble over in her own stomach. She muffled the sound in the sleeve of her coat as Will buried his face in his hands and laughed silently into them.

Their giggles eventually subsided, and the service ended. People began to stand up and rouse sleeping or dozing companions, including the man in the pew in front of them, and collect their belongings in preparation for leaving. But instead of leaving like she thought they would, they all began shaking hands and wishing a happy Christmas to practically every other member of the congregation. Even with her. It was sort of… sweet, that they were being so nice to her, but it still made her nervous—though she found that if she planted her hands firmly into the pockets of her coat, then nobody would try and grab her hand.

Auntie Annie was off, as well, talking with friends and with the vicar; the woman really was extraordinarily well-liked here, and it wasn't hard to see why.

She shifted nervously on her feet, watching groups of people walk by, some of them leaving and others re-forming into larger groups elsewhere in the church. Children tugged on their parent's hands, begging to go home so they could have dinner and get to bed, so that Father Christmas wouldn't overlook them tonight.

"Come on," Will said softly, putting a gentle hand on her arm and leading her in his aunt's general direction. For a while, she worried what he was planning, until he tapped the woman on the shoulder to draw her attention away from the group.

"Yes, Will?" She asked.

"Djaq and I are leaving," he said. "There's something I want to show her."

"Oh?" She quirked one ginger eyebrow. Then she sighed. "Well, I suppose so—don't be _too_ long, mind. I won't keep dinner for you longer than a few minutes!"

"Yes, ma'am," he said, nodding to her and then kissing her on the cheek.

Djaq felt an enormous sigh of relief leave her as she followed Will out of the church and into the cold night air.

"Thank you," she breathed. "Though you did not need to lie to her."

"It wasn't a lie—not completely, anyway. I wanted to take you someplace. Unless you'd rather not."

She shook her head and asked, "Where are we going?"

"You'll see," he replied with a grin. "Come with me." He offered her his hand and waited. After a few second's hesitation, she took it; together, they left the crowded area in front of the church in favour of the road.

Where they were going, it turned out, was down to the beach. It was eerily abandoned, quiet, and dark. Their long shadows danced on the sand in the yellow light of the streetlamps and the ghostly blue-white glow of the moon overhead. The gentle rushing sound of the little waves on the sandy shore, the dull howl of wind, and the far distant noise of people were the only other sounds.

She looked up at him, puzzled. "Why—?"

"I figured you'd probably want some alone time after being in church with all of those people—and before going back to my aunt's house."

"Or did you just want me all to yourself for a bit?" She asked with a coy smile.

He turned pink. "Maybe."

Her smile widened just the littlest bit. She did so enjoy making him blush—partially because it was just so easy to do, but also because she always thought he looked almost heartbreakingly beautiful with the little pink stain across his pale cheeks. A shy, nervous smile and an automatic glance downwards almost always accompanied the blush, a combination that all but made her melt into a whimpering puddle on the floor.

They walked together down the narrow, rickety little wooden path, now slick with little patches of ice, which lead down to the rocky beach below. She carefully stepped from her perch and landed in the coarse sand, then waited for Will to follow her. He stepped carefully, but as soon as he put his weight down, his left leg shot out from under him and in an instant he was on his backside on the patch of invisible black ice.

"Oww…" he whimpered.

"Are you all right?"

"I think so," he groaned as he stood up, wincing. "I didn't see _that_ coming."

"I am sure the boardwalk did not, either."

Instead of answering, he concentrated on gingerly standing up and getting off of the dangerously slick path and onto the beach. She walked on, as close to the water as she dared and stood on the stony part of the shore looking out across the water, black and rippling and disappearing into the distance. The smell of salt and brine and the cold all stung her nose as she breathed, but it didn't bother her.

Soft footsteps crunched in the sand behind her; he came up close and pressed himself firmly against her back, and placed one arm around her shoulders. He nuzzled her hair gently, his breath tickling. She brought her hands up and clutched at his arm, lolling her head back against his shoulder and inhaling the scent of wool, shave cream, clean clothes, and Will.

Her breath released in a slow, soft rush of white steam when he pressed his warm lips against her neck, just under her ear. It made a rush of little shivers climb up her neck and her scalp tingle deliciously. With a pleasant sigh, she tilted her head to the side and exposed the side of her neck. He planted a last open-mouthed kiss there before he stood back up and rested his chin on the top of her head. She was kind of glad he'd stopped—much more of that and she wasn't sure if she'd be able to keep herself under control. Shy, quiet Will Scarlett didn't really seem like the type to be able to reduce a woman to putty, but he knew exactly what to do to make her melt.

Maybe it was because they'd known each other for such a long time, because she loved him, she thought as she tightened her grip on his arm. His warmth behind her was comfortable and familiar, his chest and stomach fitted snugly against her back like they were two pieces of a puzzle.

The silence and solitude was something of a relief after spending the last few days with Auntie Annie and Luke, which was fun because it was different but was also loud and a bit mad for all that there were just two of them. Will had been right—it felt good to be by themselves, without being smothered by Luke and Annie and their friends, or what felt like might be the entire population of Scarborough. At the end of the day, they preferred each other's quiet company, even if they were just in the same room and happily occupying separate tasks.

As far as Djaq was concerned, there was nothing better in the world than this—just them, warm and close, with his arm around her and his breath against her skin.

Neither of them really knew how much time passed as they stood there, staring misty-eyed at the water and lost in each other.

"It is lovely, isn't it?" She sighed.

"Hmm?" He hummed questioningly as he pressed his lips against her hair. It sounded as though he was only half paying attention to the real world.

"The sea," she murmured. "It looks like it just goes on forever."

"Mm—it's nice when there aren't any people about. In the summer, there are people _everywhere._ Now it's… it's very beautiful. Peaceful." He dropped his arm from her shoulders to her waist.

"Everything seems so far away, it is like we are in another world. I almost feel guilty—here it is so serene, just you and me, but somewhere, just over the water, is…"

She trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence. It was cruel to bring up the war now.

"Allan," he said after a pause.

"I'm sorry?"

He nodded vaguely towards the sea. "Allan—he's somewhere over there."

She tilted her head to look up at him and smiled. "You are right," she said softly. "He is."

"Sort of makes him feel a little closer, doesn't it?"

Nod.

He sighed at her back and his arms held her a little tighter. She knew how much he missed his dearest friend—his brother. Allan being at war was exponentially harder on him than Luke being away; at least he knew where his baby brother was, safe with his aunt, and they could see each other every so often on special occasions. But Allan was different—he had no way of knowing, day to day and week to week, where his friend was, or how he was doing. Or even whether or not he was _alive._ She, of course, missed Allan as well, but she was a relative newcomer. Will and Allan had been friends for a long, long time; she knew well the fear of losing somebody so important, and it would have devastated Will if such a thing fell upon him again.

"You really miss him," she whispered. "Don't you?"

She thought she heard him sniffle slightly before he answered, "Of course I do. He's my best friend—it's like part of me is missing." Then his eyes widened and he started a stuttering apology. "I didn't mean it—I mean, that's not what—"

"It is all right," she said softly. "I understand. He is a part of your life—a missing piece." She turned in his arms so she faced him and wrapped one arm around his torso underneath his coat; her other hand reached up and cupped his cheek. "Don't you dare think it," she ordered sternly. "It is Christmas. You cannot think it tonight."

"I know. I won't," he murmured, sending deep reverberations through his chest.

She turned her head towards the sea. "Happy Christmas, Allan. Wherever you are."

His forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed, and he said nothing as he stood there leaning against her. Her hand stroked up the side of his face and her fingers threaded into his dark hair. He nudged her head to the side and kissed her cheek and then buried his face against her neck. She purred softly and sighed; she could have stayed like this with him all night.

They really _would_ have to go. Eventually. Auntie Annie would notice them missing, and she'd want them back at her house so she could feed them again.

But maybe not just yet.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

Ahh—that was a seriously long chapter. Those were two seriously long chapters. Glad I decided to split it—it would've been too much to digest all at once. Damn my wordiness!! It was a lot of fun to write Auntie Annie—since we never meet her in the show, everybody has their own way of writing her character. I imagine her as a bit of a spunky, weird, independent, modern old lady that everybody likes.

It's been so many years since I've been to a CoE service (or any religious service, for that matter) that I had to gloss over it. But I guess it puts me on the same Cluelessness Level as Djaq. I know _some_ about Islam, which I utilized here, but I don't claim to be an expert. Please feel free to point out anything that is incorrect.

Feedback is, as always, much loved—but not demanded. Happy not-Christmas everybody. (Does anybody else feel the need to sing "We Need a Little Christmas"?)


	13. March, 1943

_Aack!_ I'm way late in posting today! I overslept and didn't get the chance to post before I left for work—I'm so sorry!!

I should warn for a slightly citrus-flavoured scene in this chapter—sex isn't explicitly narrated, but it's pretty obvious. Just to warn those of you who might need to continually minimize the page so that your nosy sibling/roommate/boss/parent doesn't see what you're reading.

Disclaimer: The BBC owns this particular version of Robin Hood and the characters portrayed therein. Behind the scenes, Djaq owns Will and keeps him on a lead. (You know it's true.)

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**March, 1943**

They should all have been in a good mood. The war had been going well—if anybody could say that anything about a war in which hundreds of people were losing their homes and their lives was going _well—_for the Allied forces, and things were actually looking up for a change. They'd gotten a letter from Allan two weeks ago and it sounded like everything was fine. Will's twentieth birthday was over the weekend, and Luke was coming to stay with them for it. They hadn't seen him since Christmas and it was going to be nice to be all together again.

They _should_ have been in a collective good mood.

But that wasn't the case.

She knew that Will was next door in the workshop, staring blankly at a recent project request from an English professor at the University. Repairs were needed for a desk—not in itself a stressful commission. But the desk in question was the very piece that Dan Scarlett was delivering to the University on the day of the Nottingham Blitz. The day he received the injuries that later took his life.

Djaq shook her head at the thought—she wasn't sure if the owner of the desk was insensitive or maybe just a little ignorant, but it _shocked_ her that somebody would expect the young cabinetmaker to be able to make repairs on that particular piece of furniture. It may well have been that the owner of this desk knew that Will Scarlett was a very talented man, and didn't stop to think about how he'd feel being asked to work on this desk.

Whatever the reason was, it put him into a seemingly irrevocable huff. For days he just sat about his shop _staring_ at the thing, before deciding that yesterday he was going to start work on it so that he could get it out of the way and not have to worry about it again. But that decision just made his mood worse. Any time she asked him a question or, on the worse days so much as opened her mouth, he'd snap or sometimes yell at her—he always came back and apologized, but he was so on edge that she thought it best to leave him alone until he approached her. And because _he_ wasn't happy, _she_ wasn't, either. Her heart broke for him, but there wasn't anything she could do. She hoped once the task was out of the way and Lukey was here that he'd maybe be a little happier.

At least, she really _hoped_ he would.

She tapped the cake pan, coating it with flour. She was sort of proud of her creation—she'd gone without sugar for two weeks in order to stockpile enough of her rations to bake a cake for Will for his birthday. It wouldn't be a big cake—they didn't have a great deal of rations to spare—nor a particularly elegant one, since her baking skills didn't extend much further past "practicality", but it was _something_ at least. She poured in the batter and then set the bowl aside for Will for later—she always told him that raw eggs were bad to eat and that he shouldn't be licking cake batter or cookie dough out of bowls, but just this once it wouldn't hurt.

And anyway, he'd had a difficult week and she imagined the little treat might cheer him up a bit.

With the cake now baking in the oven, she set about to finish with the rest of the cleanup. She took a little bit of the batter from the bowl herself with her finger before piling the rest of the dirty dishes into the sink to wash them. Through the back window near the sink, she could see the washing hanging up on the line and fluttering like funny-shaped flags in the March wind. Will did the laundry today as a stall tactic to avoid working on the desk—and once she realized he wasn't going to bite her head off, she'd asked him if he remembered which end of the clothespin went up, and teased him good-naturedly about being so domestic. He actually seemed to enjoy being teased, and it made _her_ happy to see him smile for the first time in days.

It still looked funny to see the few skirts fluttering on the line alongside trousers and shirts and overalls—the skirts were her working clothes. She'd left her job as Much's bookkeeper in favour of something different, and ended up finding a new job in the accounts department of a large store nearby. Same work, a different environment. But it was something she found easy to do, and the pay was a little better, and she didn't have to put up with rude restaurant patrons trying to flirt with her or pinch her bottom. Most of the people she worked with now were men, and at first they acted as if having a _woman_ in their department was a totally novel experience; eventually they grew used to her and they all had a decent working friendship. And they kept their hands—if not always their eyes—to themselves.

She _had_ had to get used to wearing a skirt to work, and not doing all of her work at the high stool, hunched over the lunch counter and manoeuvring her pencil and papers around bottles of sauce and empty lunch plates, and occasionally being called upon to pick up a shift for one of the wait staff in an emergency. It was all a far cry from four years ago, mucking stalls in dirty overalls and wellies in the cold rain.

A _lot_ of things in her life were very different now compared with her life four years ago. She wasn't the same frightened, introverted little fourteen-year-old "boy" who ran around the stables all day. In truth, her outlook on life then was hardly something rosy. She hadn't the faintest idea where her life might lead from here, but she knew that there were just some things in the world that she couldn't expect, that were not for her in her position.

Friendships and love, for example.

It would never have occurred to her to think that she might find love in Nottingham—when she first arrived, scared and alone and disguised as a boy, she hardly thought she'd be fortunate enough to make friends in this strange place. She assumed she'd expended her entire lifetime supply of luck with the kind stranger, Robin Locksley, who took her out of London and away from what would most assuredly have ended up being a life of petty thievery, prostitution, or both.

But her good fortune hadn't stopped there. She never imagined she might make friends here, let alone good, close friends that she dearly loved and who loved her in return. That was good enough by itself, even when her friendship with Will was bittersweet when she pined hopelessly for him, convinced that he would never see her as anything but a friend. To find out that he returned her feelings was like something out of a sappy romantic film—certainly not something that occurs in the real world. Or at least, that's what she always thought.

Djaq smiled a little crookedly at nothing and sighed wistfully as she thought about him. She loved him desperately. It was a terrible cliché to say that Will was her best friend as well as her boyfriend and her lover, but he truly was. Their relationship wasn't based on fluffy words and constant gushing declarations of love; they were very good friends long before that platonic friendship turned to shy teenaged affection, and more time still before that affection turned to love, all without losing that closeness between them. She'd never been this close to anybody before in her life.

Except for maybe Allan—but it was a completely different closeness, of course.

Of the friends she had in her life now, she loved Will and Allan the best. Luke was like a little brother to her, and Marian like a big sister, and Robin… well, Robin was just Robin. But Will and Allan were more than friends to her—even more than family. She couldn't imagine life without these people that she so dearly loved.

Perhaps it was because of her past that she could take such small things as friendships and love and to think of them as monumental victories—just one more step away from the tattered remains of her old life.

She stared absently out the window, not really seeing anything, as she brought up those memories for the first in a long, long time. Memories of herself, before she became Djaq-the-girl, and memories of her brother, the _real_ Djaq. She'd long since stopped feeling guilty that her brother had been the one to succumb to influenza while she lived on; it was, after all, nobody's fault that it had happened. They were both ill, but she—stronger, a fighter—got better, while her brother—frailer, weaker, and tired—died on that cold, windy, sleeting day in November five years ago. For a long time after his death, her life was a blur of anger and hate and fear at a world that had allowed her to lose the only people that she loved; she worried what would become of her now that she was well and truly alone in the world. Her father had died when she was eight years old and she and her brother were sent into the custody of his brother, Bassam, who died shortly after he sent the twins away from their conflicting homeland.

Frightened and alone in another country at the tender, young age of thirteen, her future was terrifyingly uncertain. She was angry at the world for doing this to her and she had nowhere to turn and no way to let her feelings out.

Dwelling on the past never suited her, but she did stop and wonder, every so often, how her life might be different had he not died. Would she have met Robin? Probably not—she'd been out scrounging for food and money when she bumped into Robin the first time, and had her brother still been alive as her lookout, she wouldn't have allowed herself to be caught trying to "liberate" strangers of their loose belongings. She would never have met Robin, and she would probably still have been in London, scrounging and stealing. And she would still be Safiyyah, a girl, and most likely reduced to the one thing she told herself that she would _never_ sink to doing.

It seemed as though the only way for Djaq-the-girl to live a happy life was without her brother, Djaq-the-boy. Certainly she missed her brother—she wondered what the boy might have grown into, how he might react to the friends and loved ones she had now, here…

No—she shook some sense into herself. Her brother had always been weaker and sickly; he was struck with polio when they were very young, and though he'd escaped without the lasting physical damage that many sufferers ended up with—leg and back problems, physical disability—he was forever more very susceptible to illnesses. What was to her a little case of the sniffles would keep her brother sick in bed for weeks, practically at death's door; if influenza hadn't killed him when it did, something else would have done later. And later, she might not have met Robin.

And if she hadn't met Robin, she would not have been rescued from that world.

Instead of wallowing in guilt over being the surviving twin, she thought of her brother's death as the tragedy that set in motion the events that would change her life forever, for the better. Events that would let her live again.

Djaq sighed sadly as she stared blankly into the sink of soapy dishes. It was _years_ since she'd thought of her past like this. The day she left London with Robin, she'd made a promise to herself that she would _truly_ start over where he was taking her. That the scraps of Safiyyah would stay buried in that place, alongside her brother, and that she would think of this part of her life as little as possible.

She hadn't broken that promise.

She always kept her eyes forward, looking to the future, acknowledging the events of her past without letting it control her life. She was happy with her life the way it was now—she couldn't _imagine_ it being any different. It wasn't glamorous; it wasn't exciting or dramatic, and she never really did anything particularly momentous or interesting. It was just her and Will, and Allan and Lukey and Robin and Marian and a world that most of the time extended no further than a day's train ride to Scarborough—and that was her life. But it was _hers,_ it was a life that she carved out for herself.

And because of that, it was perfect.

"Are you all right?"

Will's question rattled around in her head for a few seconds before her mind registered it. She blinked a few times, mildly surprised to find herself in the kitchen and elbow-deep in soapy water.

"I'm fine," she reassured quickly. "Why?"

His fingers softly stroked across her cheek, surprising her by dragging wetness with them. Tears.

"Oh!" She gasped softly, quickly drying her hands on the towel hanging from her waistband and wiping her face dry.

"What happened?" He asked gently.

"I was only… thinking."

"About the past?"

She nodded, but she said nothing; Will already knew of the events of her past and would know what she meant when she refused to say anything further. He knew of her brother and her promise to let him go and live her life for herself. It turned out that _telling_ him was the best way of letting him know that she felt uncomfortable talking about her past—even with him. And he always understood and was accepting of whatever information she volunteered at any given time, never prying or demanding to know more.

The hand on her cheek slid under her chin and tilted her face up to his, and he leaned down wordlessly to peck her gingerly on the lips, silently telling her that he understood and wouldn't ask any more questions. The little kiss and the broad hand resting on her back were reassuring. She nuzzled the hollow at the base of his throat briefly; she felt the vibration in his throat as he murmured something incomprehensible over her head.

She turned away from him and turned her attention back to the sink.

"You _are_ all right, yes?" He asked again in a concerned tone of voice.

"I am—I promise," she replied, her voice still soft and low. "It was nothing."

"Just as long as you're sure."

As a way of answering, she turned her head into his chest and nudged him gently. The silent exchange continued with his nod in response. Then he passed behind her with a playful little pat to her behind; she squeaked and moved out of the way, grinning despite herself. He pretended he hadn't done anything, and leaned over the counter to take a piece of bread from the bread bin.

There was a silence as Djaq washed her dishes and Will munched on his bread.

"Are you finished with the desk already?" She asked carefully as he ate.

He shook his head. "I had to take a break. I can work on it for a few hours, but then I need to stop for a while—clear my head and do something else for a little while."

She nodded; it was probably better for him to do it in small bits at a time instead of forcing himself to finish it all at once. At least this way he wouldn't be overwhelmed. "I understand."

"I'll go back out again in a little while," he assured, though he sounded considerably less than enthusiastic about it.

"No rush."

He finished his snack and dusted the crumbs off his hands over the rubbish bin and peered into the untouched bowl with the scraper in it. "Is this safe to touch, or will the raw eggs leap out and bite me?" He asked as he licked some of the batter from his finger.

She laughed softly.

"No, I am fairly sure they're tame. I kept that out for you—I thought it might make you feel better."

He had his hand back in the bowl hunting for more batter, now, and his face lit up in a broad smile—he looked very much like an eager young boy when he smiled like that. "You mean I don't have to fight for it this time?"

"Go ahead."

The bowl was immediately snapped up and he sat at a chair at the kitchen table with the spatula in his mouth like a gleeful child with a lolly.

She finished with the dishes and dried her hands on the dishcloth hanging from her waistband, shaking her head as she watched her boyfriend eating raw cake batter straight out of a bowl. She came to sit on the edge of the kitchen table next to where he was perched on his chair with the bowl in his lap.

"What?" He asked around the implement in his mouth.

"I don't know why you are eating that—it will make you sick."

"No it won't—just once won't kill me."

"You do not know that."

"And _you_ do?"

"That is such a childish response," she sighed.

"I know," he said, grinning. "But you must think it won't hurt, either, since you're letting me do it."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"I will."

She rolled her eyes.

"I suppose I should offer you some, but you're terrified of raw eggs," he teased. "And I don't want to share."

"Not even with me?"

"Not even with you."

"That is mean," she pretended to sulk.

He wrinkled his nose and stuck his tongue out at her. She stuck her tongue out at him in return, then giggled.

When he wasn't paying attention, she defiantly reached over and dipped two fingers into the bowl as he tried to pull it away from her. She grinned cheekily and smeared the stolen batter on his cheek.

"Hey—!" He began to protest with a cheerful little scowl and reached up to wipe the mess away, but she shook her head and patted his hand to the side and leaned forward to kiss his sticky cheek. She kissed him again and again, all but licking the sweet mess clean. Her lips lingered, hovering just over his skin as she breathed hotly against him. She left one more kiss before pulling away and humming happily low in her throat; Will was sitting perfectly still with his eyes closed.

When his eyes finally opened, there was a mischievous look in them. He brought his own hand up to her face and she quickly moved to the side, but she wasn't quite quick enough—she felt one of his fingers graze her jaw and leave a trail of the cake batter in its path. Before she even had the chance to reproach him, his lips were on her, doing exactly the same thing she'd done and leaving long, slow, warm kisses along the side of her jawline all the way back to her ear as he cleaned away the mess. He took her earlobe into his mouth and bit down gently.

A delectable little shiver ran up her spine and her scalp tingled at the contact. She heard him growl ever so softly in her ear as he sucked the tender flesh. He bit again, _just_ enough to sting slightly before releasing her and trailing little sugary kisses down her neck. She mewled against his cheek and snaked her arms around him.

She couldn't help but laugh quietly at the situation—they were sitting there at their kitchen table, licking cake batter off of each other while she kept inadvertently coming up with progressively more deviant things to do with the remaining batter. The thought of stopping never even occurred to her as a warm, fizzy feeling settled in her stomach and she pulled him close and pressed her lips against his in a flurry of heated kisses.

"What's so funny?" He asked huskily as he reached down to pull her closer to him, scooting her across the table with his hands clasped behind her.

"This is," she whispered.

Hands roamed higher, climbing up from her backside and tugging her shirt and vest out of her jeans, bringing his palms up the back of her shirts and sliding across her bare skin. She always wore a vest under her shirt, rather than putting up with wearing a brassiere—which she hated wearing because they were pinching and uncomfortable, and because it was shockingly difficult to negotiate a bra clasp at urgent moments, like now.

"'This'?" He repeated. "How do you mean?"

Her brain could barely decipher the question. It was barely working _at all_ at the moment. She wasn't actually sure how _he_ still found it possible to talk—_she_ felt like she was about two seconds away from oozing right off the table into a puddle on the floor, and she was clinging to the back of his shirt with both hands and whimpering softly into his neck.

"If this keeps up, we will end up—" she paused and gasped quietly when he placed an open-mouthed kiss to her throat. "We will end up on the floor," she finished.

"That's fine."

"You realize that in about a minute, we will be going at it right here in the kitchen?"

"Mm-hmm. I'm not bothered—are you?"

How could she be, with his fingernails grazing her bare back and his deliciously hot breath against her ear and his body flush against hers as he stood in front of her? Not a chance she could refuse him, Djaq decided, devouring his kisses and drawing him closer with her legs tightly wrapped around his waist. But it wasn't as if she'd _wanted_ to refuse him anyway. She was certain that if she was a normal girl that she'd be shocked or appalled—or both—by the prospect of stripping down and having sex right there on the kitchen floor. But she wasn't a "normal girl" and she wasn't in the least bothered by it. It wouldn't have been the oddest thing they'd ever done.

She parted from him only briefly, just long enough to let him pull her shirts up over her head and toss them to the floor in a pile, then returned to their embrace. His left thumb flicked gently over the scar on her now-bare abdomen—a long, deep, angry scar that frequently plagued her self-conscious. He didn't care about it at all, and said he loved her all the more for imperfections. Or at least he didn't care about what he _thought_ it was; someday, she knew, she would have to come clean and tell him the truth, and that she was doing neither herself nor him any favours by delaying it.

But intimate moments like this were certainly not the time or place for that sort of thing, she thought, her head now a mess of fuzzy half-thoughts. Thinking just wasn't something foremost as he mouthed a path of damp, ticklish kisses down her stomach and a few across that scar before he stood back upright again to reclaim her lips.

He slid her off the table without parting as he brought her down to the floor in a graceless heap.

_Thinking_ could wait until much, much later.

o…o

They hadn't stopped at the kitchen that afternoon. He wasn't sure whose idea it was—though it _was_ mutually agreed upon—to keep going, but one way or another they'd gone once in the kitchen, once up against the far wall in the back hallway, and twice in the sitting room. There was a certain illicit thrill while they were in the hall, knowing that somebody might see them through the frosted glass on the back door. Will had never imagined himself as the type to delight in the prospect of getting caught in the act; he hardly imagined _Djaq_ as the type, either. It was absolutely crazy, and yet oddly wonderful at the same time.

The pair of them together were a volatile combination, he'd learned over the past few years. Two otherwise reserved and unassuming young people became quite surprisingly sexually adventurous with one another, and occasionally they actually _fought_ for dominance. Shy Will Scarlett and sensible Djaq Bseiso were never to be found at times like that.

Not that he minded. Ever. At all.

Of course, they hadn't done a great deal of anything else that afternoon and spent most of the rest of the day into the evening drifting in and out of consciousness on the living room carpet between the sofa and the coffee table, wrapped up in a blanket. Will had managed to squirm out of her grip for just long enough to rescue the cake from the oven, and then immediately buried himself back under the blankets with her and went back to sleep.

It'd probably been a total waste of an afternoon—the desk in the shop hadn't been finished, the spare room hadn't been made up for Luke, whose train was coming _tonight,_ and now there were clothes all over the kitchen that had to be picked up, some of which were sporting a few isolated cake batter spots and would need to be cleaned.

Except that it wasn't a waste, because the foul mood that had plagued him non-stop for days was finally gone. Getting a bit silly—and then downright _deviant—_with Djaq probably helped. Falling asleep, curled up around her with her locked onto his chest and breathing evenly on his bare skin was a peaceful feeling that he certainly hadn't wanted to end.

Whatever the reason, it _had_ helped him immensely, and today he'd _finally_ stopped feeling out of sorts and actually finished with the project that was hanging over his head. The little brass drawer handles that had come loose were replaced and the roughened edges were sanded down. It was an enormous relief, he thought, looking at the piece before him. He quietly ran his hands along the curved edge of the desktop, smooth and rounded and made of majestic, dark wood inlaid with lighter pieces set in a pattern. It was a beautiful piece, masterfully crafted and detailed without being too excessively ornate. He couldn't imagine it being used for anything _but_ the desk of a university professor—it seemed to be tailor-made to the role.

As talented as he himself was, Will knew that he would never be the artisan his father had been. He already knew that such skills were honed over many years and came with age and practice, but standing here in this woodshop, inspecting one of the finest works he'd ever seen before, he once again felt an enormous and reverent respect for his father's gift for woodwork. There was no doubt in his mind that if Dan hadn't married and had children when he did, he could have gone off and become a well-known artist in his craft. He could have been wealthy and world-renowned, but instead he stayed the humble cabinetmaker of Nottingham.

And somehow he couldn't see the man as anything else.

Will sighed sadly to himself. Part of him wanted to keep this desk, as the last link to his father, but that wouldn't have been right. Even if he _was_ permitted to keep it, it would just be a constant reminder of his father's death—a reminder of what happened the day the desk was delivered. He absolutely didn't want that. He always remembered his father as he had been in life, rather than dwelling on his tragic early death. Dan would have preferred it that way, as well, he imagined. Most of them time, when he thought of his father, he thought of the good times—those long, quiet afternoons learning his craft by his side; the days when he and Lukey were much younger, when their mother was still alive and the four of them were still all together; even after she was gone, there were still good times between the three of them. He often remembered the nights that the three of them would tell stories and jokes at dinner, laughing until the food got cold.

He _had_ thought that he was well and truly used to his father's absence—and for the most part he _was_ used to it—but every so often he'd think of something funny that he thought his father might laugh at, or he'd hear something he'd want to tell him about later, only to remember suddenly that Dan was long gone.

He supposed it was only natural.

He loved his father, but he knew the man well enough to know that he wouldn't have wanted his son to stop living because of him.

One last going-over was all he needed to do now, before he could telephone the people at the University to come and pick up their desk. He lowered himself onto his back and slid underneath the desk, looking for anything else that needed to be addressed; everything looked just fine. Everything except for a little scratch, right at the top in the _veery _back of the inside leg. Frowning, he tried to get a look at it, but it was too dark under there to tell what it was. He grabbed the torch from his toolbox, along with a small knife to scrape the offending marks off if needed.

When he was back underneath the desk, he shined the light onto the spot where the scratches were, and his heart nearly stopped. Of course—why hadn't he thought of that before? It wasn't a scratch, no damage or blemish that had to be removed. Every piece Dan Scarlett ever made, he'd signed and dated. There, in the very back of this handsome desk, hidden from view from anybody except for those who were looking for it, were four letters and a date, etched into the wood:

_DaSc, May 1941._

He gingerly reached out and touched the mark with the tips of his fingers. That was his dad, the last mark he'd ever made on the world.

Instead of making him feel sad or angry, or making him burst into tears like he thought it should have, it made him feel as if his father was closer—like, somehow, he was a little less gone. It was a good feeling.

Carefully, with a steadier hand than he thought he could manage, he took the point of his knife to the space just below his father's signature. There, he left his own mark. _WSc, Mar 1943._

With that done, he eased himself out from under the desk and stood back to have one last look at it. He felt… oddly calm, actually. He nodded to himself, satisfied, and dusted himself off.

There were envelopes on the floor inside the door as he walked in—Djaq must not have heard the postman arrive. She was probably off in some other quarter of the house, doing all of the things she'd _planned_ on getting done yesterday but never got around to doing, what with one thing and another.

"Hello?" He heard her call down from upstairs.

"It's just me," he answered absently as he looked through the post.

"Did you finish?"

"All done—I'm on my way to phone right now."

"Good. It is probably a good idea to get that desk out of here as soon as possible."

That was definitely true. It was probably _also_ a good idea for the desk to be gone before Luke got here. He didn't think his little brother needed to see that.

He was half looking through a list of telephone numbers on the pad of paper by the phone and half looking to see if they'd received anything interesting in the post when one particular envelope jumped out at him. It was from Allan. Suddenly, it felt like Christmas as he immediately forgot about the telephone call to the University and dropped the rest of the post carelessly onto the floor.

There was that familiar, juvenile hand on the slightly folded blue-and-red envelope. _Second Lieutenant A. a-Dale._

"Hey, Djaq!" He called excitedly up the stairs. "Djaq!"

"What?"

"There's a letter here from Allan!"

He could hear the excitement in her voice as she replied, "Well, open it!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, yes—I will be finished in a minute, so just open it!"

He didn't have to be told _that_ twice. He tore open the envelope and sat down on the sofa, reading his friend's most recent news. And it _was_ pretty recent; the letter had only been written a week and a half ago.

It sounded like he was doing well. The letter detailed a marathon Monopoly game that went on for two weeks between three other soldiers in his regiment during a lull in the fighting, during which they were all doing a lot of nothing.

"_If it weren't for the Germans, you'd think the most common enemy was boredom. There's just __nothing__ to do when you're not working!"_, his friend wrote, accompanied by a very small photograph, cut down to fit the page, showing who must have been a few of the other young men in his regiment looking almost _painfully_ bored as they lounged around on cots and in chairs. Arrows on the page pointed to the three most prominent figures, naming them. _"David, Wesley, and Martin, having more fun here than they've had in weeks!"_ Even though they were just words on a page, Will could practically _see_ the sarcasm coming from them and it made him laugh.

A few more amusing stories were relayed, along with declarations of "I miss you", responses to questions and stories from their last letter to him, and inquiries into everybody's wellbeing. There was a P.S. scrawled on the back of the last page, almost like it was an afterthought and not terribly important. When Will read the words, his heart burst from his chest and a lump formed in his throat.

"Djaq!" He cried out hoarsely, reading the words over again just to make sure he hadn't misunderstood them. He turned quickly to call out to her again, only to see her bound into the room just as he opened his mouth.

"What is it?" She asked anxiously as she climbed over the arm of the sofa and leaned over him to get a look at the letter in his hands. "What's happened?"

"Well—nothing's set in stone yet and he can't say anything for certain, but…" he took a deep breath and steadied himself. "He says he's coming home."

She snatched the letter right out of his grip and read through it herself with astonishing speed, coming to the postscript at the end. He knew she'd come to the postscript, because her eyes went wide and lit up, and her face broke into a huge smile.

"He is coming home," she whispered. _"Home."_

Will let out a loud cry and swept the unsuspecting young woman up in his arms and spinning her around in circles in a gleeful outburst, laughing and on the verge of tears; she yelped in surprise as he lifted her right off of the sofa.

"He's alive and he's not hurt and he's safe and he's coming home and he's… he's _alive_ and _everything!"_ He buried his face in her shirt, half laughing and half crying against the warm cloth covering her shoulder. She hugged him back, her arms tight and secure around him as his breathing turned shaky. Carefully, she unfastened his grip from her waist and slid down to stand on the floor, still holding him tightly and stroking the back of his neck as he leaned into her.

He couldn't believe it. After over a year away at war, his best friend was coming back. Allan was _alive,_ and he was _safe,_ and most importantly… he was coming home, and they wouldn't have to fear for their friend anymore.

At that moment, he couldn't imagine the world being a better place.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

This is how used to long chapters I've gotten—I looked at my word count and went, "What? Only 5500 words? That's nothing!", and then tried to find places where I could flesh out the story.

The, um… _not-_sex scene in the kitchen wasn't planned. It just sort of happened. I haven't written a really gratuitous mush scene between Djaq and Will yet, and I figured the kitchen table was as good a place as any. You know what they say—it's always the _quiet ones._

Reviews are, as always, greatly appreciated but not demanded.


	14. May, 1943

MONSTER CHAPTER ALERT! This is, thus far, the longest chapter I've written for this story. It comes in at over 10,000 words, and I couldn't find a reasonable place to cut the chapter into two. I don't know whether to be proud, or frightened.

There is something uncannily, implicitly unlucky about writing this story—since beginning it almost three months ago, I've suffered some terrible luck. First there was a tornado and two-day power outage. And then there was a water main break which left us without water for a day and boiling the tap water to disinfect it for another four. _Finally,_ about halfway through writing this chapter, I had _two_ kidney stones, my third bout with them in four years—a process which is the most painful experience ever in the entire universe. Bad luck, I tell you! But I love this story and _I am going to finish it._ Just don't stand too close, in case I get struck by lightning or something.

Disclaimer: The BBC's Robin Hood and the characters therein are not my property, even though goodness knows I've tried.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**May, 1943**

They were both nervous. They shouldn't have been—they should have been deliriously happy to see their friend again, to see him arrive at the station alive and well after nearly eighteen months away at war. And, truly, Will _was_ happy about it. But the prospect of meeting Allan again and picking up their friendship after so much had undoubtedly changed about his friend, and _especially_ after so much had changed between Djaq and himself, seemed somehow daunting. Before he left, they were just a pair of teenagers in a fledgling romance; now they were lovers. He wasn't exactly sure how his friend would deal with it, given how he'd felt about Djaq in the past and probably _still_ felt for her. He just wasn't sure how he'd react to that.

The station platform was crowded with people waiting for friends and relatives coming home or coming to visit; several people were waiting for friends and relatives who were soldiers returning from the war. It was easy to tell these people, because they all looked simultaneously anxious and relieved and happy. Djaq stood next to him with her hands folded tightly in front of her, shifting from foot to foot and biting her bottom lip. He imagined she worried about the same things he did, that she, too, worried about his possible reaction to their changed relationship.

A baby fussed nearby, followed by a woman's quiet shushing. Alice Little also came to see Allan at the station—the woman still maintained a certain affection for him because he'd lived in their house for such a long time. Now, though, he wouldn't be able to move back in with them. The fussing baby was Alice and John's second child, a little girl called Amelia; she was only ten months old, a chubby little lump of pink skin and brown hair wrapped in a little powder-blue blanket. Will thought she was kind of cute, but completely boring because she was too young to be interesting—she just sat there, drooling and grabbing at anything she liked. He liked children once they were old enough to have a personality and use syllables, but even so he, like Auntie Annie, preferred it when he could give them _back_ to their parents when he got bored. Djaq wasn't even vaguely interested in the infant, but politely smiled and kept her saltier comments to herself—though she did admit that she didn't much like babies, to which Alice widened her eyes but said nothing.

The Little's house was small, and with the addition of the baby girl there just wasn't enough room for them to have Allan back. Poor Alice felt guilty about not being able to take the young man back into their home, even though it wasn't anything that could be helped; she felt she owed something to a brave youth returning from the war, as if she somehow forgot that he lived in her house for nine years before leaving. So for now, Allan would be staying with Will and Djaq, since they had the room. This fact just added to the couple's worry over him.

But, of course, there was nothing either of them could do about it except for wait and see what would happen.

There was a crackling voice announcing over the station loudspeaker about the next train arriving, but it was almost impossible to decipher. Whoever was in charge of making those announcements must have kept doing it with the microphone _in his mouth._ Seconds later, the low, rumbling chugging of a locomotive grew in the distance.

Will felt his heartbeat speed up again, his pulse pounding hard in his throat as he listened for the train—for Allan—coming closer.

With a loud rumble and in a massive cloud of steam and smoke, the train pulled in and hissed to a slow stop. The arrival was heralded by the shouts of the crowd on the platform, some people coming up close to run alongside the train and leap up to see the people inside; several passengers on board were sticking their heads and arms out of the windows to greet their friends. A few of those people were in uniform, and both of them found themselves looking to see if they could spot their friend. But there were so many people and so much activity that it would probably be easier just to wait until the passengers disembarked.

As soon as the doors were opened, people began pouring out of the train cars. Returning soldiers and navy men and pilots were tearfully reuniting with their family members and friends, being swept up in group hugs that looked like they might suffocate the poor young men in the middle.

It wasn't immediately apparent where Allan was; he couldn't see his face and looking for a uniform was a bit redundant because there were already so many young men—and a few women—in various uniforms.

"I do not see him," Djaq said quietly.

"He's here—there's just a lot of people here, it's hard to spot any single person."

"Should we split up?"

"No, just sit tight. We'll spot him eventually."

"Perhaps we should have told him to wear a silly hat, so we could spot him."

"I could just see Allan in a bright purple fedora with an orange plume."

She giggled, but her hands were still knotted tightly in front of her; she was still nervous, as was he.

They waited patiently for the crowd to thin before splitting up to look for him. He headed down to one end of the platform, and Djaq to the other. Will thought he probably had a better vantage point, being quite a bit taller.

People passed him by or pushed him out of the way on their way to meet friends and family; visitors from out of town looked annoyed that there were joyful reunions taking place and blocking their way. He walked back and forth a few times for several minutes, taking care to look closely at the passengers. Still no Allan. Now he was beginning to get a little worried—had he gotten the day wrong? The platform? Had something happened to Allan on the way, did he miss his train? He began to chew nervously on his fingernails and leaned on a brick pillar, absently watching the passengers as he thought.

It would be awful if poor Allan missed his train—everybody he could have called to inform of his situation was already at the station waiting for him.

He moved up briefly, and caught sight of two figures slowly coming down the foldable metal stairs outside the car. One was a young woman, possibly an employee of the railroad, helping a young man down to the platform as he tried to manoeuvre a wooden cane and a wooden footlocker around himself and the woman. The man was in uniform. Could it be…?

"Allan?" He called quietly, experimentally. The young man perked his head up and looked around to see who'd called his name. Then he turned in his direction, looking at him with those big blue eyes and familiar silly grin, bringing his free hand up to wave at him. He nudged the young woman trying to help him and pointed in his direction, telling her something that he couldn't hear; the left side of his face and neck was dotted with little scars. Will's stomach twisted frightfully, his pulse beat painfully fast in his throat and there was an impossibly loud rush in his ears.

He carefully navigated around the stagnant crowd, making his way over as everything happened in slow motion. He blinked, and the next thing he knew he was standing face-to-face with his friend.

It was… a _strange_ feeling.

His ears felt cloudy, like the sounds around him were muffled, and his vision tunnelled until all he saw was Allan. He found himself inspecting him, looking for any outward signs of damage. The scars on the side of his face and neck were little flecks and scratches, as if he'd been peppered with lots of tiny, sharp projectiles. What had happened? He walked with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily on his cane; as he stood, he kept all of the weight off of his left leg. What had he not told them? He never mentioned being hurt, it never came up in any of his letters, and he knew it couldn't have happened since his last letter since they'd spoken on the telephone—one of those static-y long-distance telephone calls from London—the previous night. He said nothing about being injured.

The distant part of his mind—the part that was oddly detached from the situation—felt somewhat angry with his friend for having hidden this from him. Was he afraid of what they'd think? Ashamed that he'd been hurt?

He couldn't think of anything to say; he just stood there, dumbly staring at him and trying to come up with words, but he felt like he'd forgotten the entire English language within the last thirty seconds. What could he do—what could he _say?_ His stomach boiled over with nerves as his brain frantically tried to re-establish contact with his voice.

He couldn't be sure how to act around him, what to say, what _not_ to say. He—both he _and_ Djaq, really—knew and had been warned that war frequently changed men; that more or less went without saying. The trouble was in knowing _how_ it would have changed him. Would he still have his sense of humour? Would he still be the same person? There was no one set pattern of behaviour for returning soldiers. All of them reacted differently to battle fatigue; some hardly changed at all while others were completely different than when they'd left. Some didn't have battle fatigue at all.

In short, they were warned that the Allan that returned might be drastically different from the one that left them.

"So? You gonna stand there and stare at me, or are you gonna say hello to your old mate?"

His worries evaporated almost immediately; he still sounded like the same old Allan.

They both fell forward into one another in a tangle of arms, chins hooked over shoulders in a tight hug. They clapped one another on the back a few times, but mostly just stayed locked together in an embrace. An enormous feeling of relief washed over him; he nearly felt like crying, but it was all far too intense for that. He felt relieved and happy and nervous and worried, all at the same time—happy that he was back, nervous about how things were going to change now, and worried about what had happened to him. It was all sort of exhausting, actually.

"Just a hug's not gonna do it, I'm afraid, Will," he said softly, almost apologetically.

Before he could ask what he meant by this, he'd given him a kiss on the cheek, unshaved whiskers rasping on his skin; he didn't even occur to Will to be cross with him for doing that in public. He could hardly find it in himself to be cross with him for hiding his injury. He was just happy that his friend was _home._

"Welcome home," he said, sniffling into his shoulder.

"Hey, come on—don't do that," he scolded nervously, giving him one last pat before pulling away. "I'm back now. Everything's fine, all right?"

Allan was never terribly good with overt displays of the more serious side of human emotion. Light-heartedness always suited him much better, and he always battled seriousness with silliness; it was just his way.

Still.

"'Fine'?" He repeated with a quirked eyebrow. "Why didn't you _tell_ us, Allan?"

"I've been here for five minutes and already you're finding something to pick at!" He growled with a good-natured grin. "I guess some things never change."

"Allan!"

They both turned towards the source of the voice and saw Djaq weaving through the crowd as she ran for them. Will stepped aside to give her room, and the young woman flung her arms around the blue-eyed man.

"Hello, there, sweetheart," he murmured, calling her the hated nickname with his lips pressed against her hair.

She slapped him gently on the arm. "You are only just home, so I shall forgive _that_ one," she told him. Her eyes glistened as she looked at him, but the tears didn't fall.

"God—the two of you haven't changed at all," he sighed, shaking his head.

They each passed a sideways glance at one another, as if contemplating how much to reveal and when. Now, certainly, was not the time.

"Come here, you two," was the only warning they got before he hooked his arms around them both and hugged them to him tightly. The group embrace on the platform lasted almost longer than the one they'd shared before he left last year. Then it had been fear of the unknown keeping them clutching each other. Now it was that overwhelming relief, so much so that they kept hold of one another to keep from all falling down.

Finally, they slowly let each other go, laughing a little nervously at the curious looks from passer-bys. Now that the initial shock was over, they were all wearing matching smiles. They were all together again. It was an incredible feeling.

They stood for a long time, all of them nearly mesmerized by the current circumstances. None of them could reasonably think of anything to say, and so they said nothing. It was only after a few stern comments and the angry pushing of other travellers at the station that they snapped out of the collective stupor.

"We should probably get out of the flow of traffic," Allan suggested.

"Good idea," Djaq agreed. "Alice is here to see you, as well. She wanted you to meet somebody."

"She's not fixing me up with a girl, is she?" He asked jokingly.

"Just one," Will joked right back. He knew he had a borderline demented smile on his face—probably not unlike Conrad Veidt from that film, _The Man Who Laughs—_but he couldn't help himself. He was just so overwhelmingly happy to see Allan again. He loaded the footlocker onto a dolly and began to lead him away from the train towards where Alice Little was waiting for them.

"Oh?" Allan asked with raised eyebrows, limping as he walked in between them and leaning heavily on that cane. Will's heart twisted as he looked at that, wanting to ask him about what'd happened but knowing that this was not the time or the place for it; he looked to the side and noticed that Djaq had put a protective hand on Allan's free arm.

With the crowd much thinner than before, it was easy to get back to Mrs Little, who was gently rocking the now-quiet Amelia back and forth in her pram. The older woman's face lit up when she saw them approach. Her smile wavered and she almost started sobbing as she hugged the man she'd taken care of for so many years and watched grow up from a little boy.

Like many things, Will wasn't completely sure where to classify this particular relationship. Alice Little had never been completely a mother figure to Allan, but their relationship was somewhere between boarder-landlady, and mother-son. She was just fond of him, was all, he thought as she released the young man from her grasp and backed an arm's length away from him to get a better look.

She didn't bat an eye at his injury as she gave him a quick inspection; it seemed she was taking it all in stride, just glad that he was back home where he was safe, too glad to give him any grief regarding not telling anybody that something had happened.

"Stand back, there, and let me have a look at you," she ordered in a soft, gentle tone, clucking at him like a mother hen. "Well, you have the obvious injury and a few nicks here and there, but that's only to be expected from somebody returning from a war zone. You look like you haven't shaved in a few days—goodness, Allan, couldn't you have bothered to do _that_ at least before coming back here?" She didn't wait for an answer as she hugged him once again.

"Alice," he replied with a huge smile as he returned the woman's hug. "It's good to see you again. It's good to be _back."_

He stood patiently and let her fawn quietly over him for a few more minutes. When he got bored, his eyes began to wander until they rested on the pale blue bundle in the pram, and smiled.

"Well, hello, miss," he said quietly, bending forward on his cane to get closer to the infant. She stared back at him with blank blue eyes. "Are you the reason I can't go back with the Littles?"

"Yes—yes, she is," Alice said. "This is Amelia." She picked the baby up out of the pram and held her on her hip. Her tiny hand gripped Allan's thumb when he reached for her; the young man smiled broadly with an absolutely _silly_ look in his eyes.

"I guess this is her way of shaking hands, eh?" He asked. Then he joggled his thumb a bit. "Nice to meet you, Miss Amelia."

The baby giggled.

"Would you like to hold her?"

"You're not afraid I'll drop her?"

The woman briefly looked concerned before she realized that he was joking. He balanced himself on his good leg and held baby Amelia in his arms in her little blue blanket. Her hands grasped at the shiny buttons and badges on his uniform, gurgling and babbling quietly.

It was a little surprising to see him there with the baby, bouncing her on his arm and letting her gum on his fingers and grab at all of the colourful ribbons on his uniform. Allan and babies was a combination that neither Will nor Djaq ever really thought about, and they weren't completely sure what to make of the scene before them. It was sort of sweet, actually, in an entirely unexpected kind of way.

"I never knew you were good with babies," he remarked.

"Huh?" He vaguely looked up from the child. "Oh, I just like 'em when they're little like this. They're cute, they're fun, they don't talk back, and they can't ask for money." He handed the giggling Amelia back to her mother, who was practically beaming. "I mean, if you think about it—the world's all new to them when they're little. It's kinda fun watching 'em explore it."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I've never seen this side of you before."

He shrugged. "Not something we really talk about, is it? It'd be a bit odd if two blokes start talking about babies, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose it would."

"We should probably get a move on," Djaq suggested. "There are a lot of people waiting to see you."

"People—what?" He asked; Will grinned.

"Come on," he said. "We'll show you."

Will wasn't sure if his friend would be able to walk all the way to Much's Place on his bad leg, but he must have had a lot of practice with the cane because he walked—limped—very easily to the restaurant without complaint. Much was nice enough to let them use his restaurant for a "Welcome Home" party, and to feed everybody. He acted like he was reluctant to do this for them, but he knew better—even _Much_ was happy to have Allan back. Robin paid for the drinks and some of the food, but only after winning an extended argument with Djaq over it.

The young man was almost immediately deluged as soon as he walked into the restaurant, bombarded with people hugging him and slapping him on the back and mussing his hair as they welcomed him home. Allan ate up the attention, saying hello to old friends and co-workers, and to Much, who tried to pretend he wasn't nearly as happy as he was that he was back; Marian even gave him a kiss on the cheek when she greeted him, causing his whole face to turn red.

Food was abundant, more than the dozen or so people present could possibly eat—Much's rationale for this was that the poor boy had just spent the last eighteen months eating army food and would probably enjoy having something that didn't come freeze-dried or in a tin. He was making sure that nobody within ten feet failed to have a plate heaping with food.

People all crowded around the guest of honour as he regaled them with stories of the front, of the fighting and the bravery of his fellow soldiers. He was still very much the same person he was when he left, smiling and laughing, telling silly stories and keeping the mood light, rather than delving into the more serious and less appealing things he would most assuredly have seen while he was away. His favourite stories to tell were the ones about the American G.Is, about whom the female partygoers were very curious; he talked of the abundant confusion between the British soldiers and the American ones, when they tried to communicate and discovered that the same words meant completely different things to their allies.

But whenever he was asked about "Jerries" and "Japs", asking for confirmation of a number of rumours and stories about them, he became surprisingly defensive of the very people he had been fighting.

"You shouldn't believe everything you hear about 'em, you know," he said. "It's rude. And anyway, just because a few crazy people are in charge and going to war doesn't mean that _everybody_ from that country is exactly the same as that."

"What makes you say that?" Somebody had asked imprudently; Will didn't see who it was.

Allan just shrugged. "I was in hospital in a neutral country—both sides were there, and they were treated exactly the same. After a while, I stopped keeping track of who came from which army or navy. Being all closed up in a hospital, it's nice to have some company, even if they can't speak your language and you can't speak theirs. Once the uniforms come off, we're the same."

This shocked everybody who heard it, raising eyebrows all over the restaurant. Djaq looked a combination of impressed and pleased when she heard his words.

"I'm kinda shocked," Will told him as he handed him a full glass of cider.

"Why? That I don't automatically hate people I've never met?" He asked sarcastically. It sounded like he'd had to explain this thinking many times before.

"Not that—you're not a hateful person. I'm just… surprised you can find a way to express yourself so well," he teased. "You've never really proven terribly proficient in the English language before."

Allan nodded briefly as he took a long drink, and then realized what his friend had said. He gave him a shove. "Very funny, mate."

"You're right, it _is_ funny."

As if they were both fourteen years old again, he grabbed Will around the neck and held him down under his arm, grinding his knuckles into his scalp; even as he struggled to free himself and quietly yelped in pain, he was laughing. They were still very much the boyhood friends they'd been for most of their lives. Of course, the young cabinetmaker was much taller now than he'd been when he was younger—he was even taller than Allan, and had to lean down fairly low for his head to fit underneath his arm.

Djaq came up beside them, a crooked, loopy smile on her face and a glazed look in her eyes. "Having fun, little boys?" She asked.

"Heaps of fun," Allan answered. "I've been gone so long, you'll have to tell me what silly things my old mate has said that I've missed—you know, so I can smack him for it all."

"That might take a few days," she giggled.

"Stop encouraging him!" Will growled, finally freeing himself.

"What's wrong with that?"

Rubbing his sore head, he looked over at her and noticed that she was holding a half-empty glass of cider in her hands. "Who gave you that?" He asked worriedly.

"Much did—why, is it a problem?"

"Well, I don't know," he replied. "Is that your first?"

She shook her head. "My third."

Allan nearly choked on his own drink. "You've had _three_ of those?"

Nod.

"This will be interesting," he laughed.

Will was more worried than anything else. Djaq hardly _ever_ drank, and cider was one of those incredibly sneaky beverages—the kind that left the drinker completely ignorant as to how much alcohol they were taking in until they were a giggling mess on the floor under the table. He was afraid she might make herself sick, and although she wasn't in any real danger, it still made him worry for her sake. And he certainly didn't envy her the hangover she'd have tomorrow morning.

"Is something wrong?" She asked again. "I feel _fine._ I've had three and I don not feel a thing!"

"I dunno why that doesn't surprise me," Allan quipped. "You might feel a slight numbness from the neck up, but that's totally normal."

Will narrowed his eyes at him.

"Maybe you should give me the rest of that," he said, reaching out to take the glass from her. She weakly held onto it for a few seconds before relenting and letting him keep it.

"You could always get your own you know," she giggled. Her face was flushed pink and her ears were red from the drink. "And then you don't have to worry about the backwash."

"Oh, god, she's drunk," Allan laughed. "That's terrible."

"Then why are you laughing?" He growled.

"Because it's Djaq! She's… she's the steady and serious one. It's kind of funny to see her—"

"_Soused?"_ He supplied.

"Oh, she's not _that_ drunk."

"I'll just keep an eye on her," he said, the worry still in his voice. "Make sure she doesn't get into any trouble."

"Oh, loosen up, mate. She'll be fine, and nobody'll let anything happen to her. Cheer up—have a few dozen drinks." He clapped him on the back before leaving him in favour of going off to chat with a group of giggling young women.

Will sighed and shook his head, then took a drink from the glass he'd taken from Djaq. Maybe Allan was right—it _was_ a party, after all, and he didn't have to drive home.

It was very easy to lose track of how many drinks he'd had—because of that damn sneaky cider. His legs grew more and more wobbly and most of his body felt warm. He caught sight of himself in the front window, which became more like a mirror in the dark, and saw that his whole face had gone quite red, like a very bad sunburn.

But he didn't particularly care. He felt giddy and a bit merry.

By the time the party broke up and most of the people were gone, it was very late. Robin, who was himself not exactly on solid ground, was calling local taxi companies to take people home so that they weren't driving—or _walking—_drunk. And some of them were _so_ drunk that they couldn't even walk.

Will, Allan, and Djaq were among those who were being loaded into cars.

Some idiot—probably Much, or maybe one of Allan's friends hoping to get lucky—gave Djaq _more_ to drink, and by the time the three of them were stumbling drunkenly into the cab, she was completely drunk. She was also apparently legless, so much so that she had to be carried between her friends so she didn't fall down. She was an _extremely _giggly drunk—she was laughing at absolutely everything, including her own clumsiness, tripping on her shoelaces and hitting her head on the top of the cab door.

At least she was better than Allan, who was a very amorous drunk and had to be dragged away from proposing marriage to a group of giggling girls in order to be recruited to help load their friend into the back seat of the car. On their way out, he professed love to a mailbox and the cabbie. During much of the ride home, he almost tearfully declared his undying affection for his friends and how much he'd missed them while he was away.

"I love you two," he sobbed in the back seat during the ride. "You're my friends—my very, very, very—" he had an awful lot of "very"s under his breath, apparently losing track of them, "—best friends. 'N I missed you. Missed you more 'n I thought I'd miss anybody. I love you so much." Then he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

All of which Djaq thought was incredibly funny.

Will, the least inebriated of the three, attributed his friend's openness partially to the man being so drunk, though he didn't doubt the truth in his words. Sometimes he wondered if people were the most open and honest, the truest to themselves, only when they were intoxicated.

Djaq fell asleep between them during the ride home, drooping onto Will's shoulder and mumbling in her sleep. He carried her limp, sleeping body up the garden path and into the house with Allan following close behind, both of them trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake her. Though that probably didn't matter much—he got the impression that he could drop her down the stairs and she wouldn't wake up.

"D'you think you can carry her up there yourself, or d'you want some help?" Allan asked perhaps a little too loudly. He apparently thought he was keeping his voice low.

"Ssh!" He hissed. "And I think I can carry her. Besides, I don't think I could burden you with a sleeping drunk with your limp."

"It's really not so bad, you know," he said. "And anyway, they taught us the proper way to carry an unconscious person during basic."

"All right, then, here—you hold her for a second. I have to find my key." He handed her to Allan, who held his cane under his arm and stood on his good leg while Will dug around in his pockets for the key.

"She doesn't hardly weigh anything," he remarked.

"Not really, no."

"I guess it's just—geez! Aack!"

Will turned around to see Djaq sliding through Allan's arms; he nearly dropped her on the ground.

"Hey, be careful! You could hurt her!"

"I'm sorry—she's just sort of… limp."

"So? I thought you said they taught you how to carry unconscious people!"

He hefted her in his arms and tried to keep a better hold on her, but she practically folded in half and oozed between the gap in his arms. This time he _did_ drop her. She didn't wake up.

"Unconscious," he growled. "Not _boneless."_

He thrust the key into his hand. "All right, _you_ unlock the door and _I'll_ hold onto her."

Allan opened the door as he lifted the sleeping woman effortlessly and slung her around his shoulders in a fireman's lift. It was like holding a bag of wet cement.

The young soldier flipped the lights on as he entered the house and nearly tripped over his footlocker as he moved out of the hallway, forgetting that John Little had come around and dropped it off at the house, so they wouldn't have to worry about it at the party.

"Oof! Ow, that hurt," he grunted.

"Go sit down," Will commanded. "I'm gonna go bring her upstairs."

"Need any help getting her into her pajamas?" He joked with a laugh.

He shook his head but didn't answer, and instead concentrated on not tripping as he carried Djaq upstairs and walked to their bedroom. She was completely limp in his grip, the colour in her face an intensely rosy red. He laid her gently down into the bed, carefully removing her shoes and pulling her jeans off.

"Nn—not now," she murmured sleepily. "I'm too tired…"

"Shh, you're dreaming. Go back to sleep."

"Mmkay…" she sighed.

He laughed quietly to himself and shifted her so that her head rested on the pillows on her side of the bed. When she reached up and tucked her arms underneath her head, her shirt hiked up her stomach and revealed part of the deep, puckered scar across the right side of her abdomen. A bad appendix scar, she'd told him. He gently ghosted his fingers alone the line, making her twitch and squirm under his hand in her sleep. She was terribly self-conscious of it at first, so much so that she was terrified of undressing if he was in the room. He didn't care about it, though—he thought she was beautiful. She still sometimes worried about that scar, no matter how much he told her he didn't care.

He stroked her forehead, sticky with sweat, and planted a small kiss there. "Good night, _habibi,"_ he whispered before leaving her to sleep in peace.

He came downstairs to see Allan flopped on the sofa, with no shoes on and his shirt hanging open. It looked like he'd come slightly back from his haze of alcohol and his face had returned to its normal colour, but his eyes were completely glazed as he sat in the dark room.

"She asleep?" He asked as he entered the room and turned on the light.

"Out cold," he replied as he plopped down next to him.

"Good. She should sleep that off—she'll feel like shit in the morning."

"Most likely. We probably all will."

"Mm-hmm," Allan grunted. "So—you plan on going back upstairs?"

Will shook his head. "I think I'll wait for my head to clear before I try and navigate the stairs again."

"You mind if I just kip here? I'm not so sure about the stairs myself."

"Not if I fall asleep here first."

"So if you whomp out on the sofa, does that mean I get to sleep upstairs with Djaq?" He teased.

Will gave him a shove. "No way."

"What, are you afraid that the dashing Second Lieutenant Allan a-Dale will use his _irresistible_ charms to steal her away from you?"

He snorted in reply. "I think she's too drunk to react to your 'irresistible charms'," he retorted.

"Does that mean you think if she was sober she'd go for me?"

Another shove. "She's got better taste than that."

Pause.

"So… you and Djaq, then."

He knew this conversation was inevitable. "Me and Djaq," he repeated.

"You must be the luckiest man on the face of the planet, you know that?"

"That sentiment's crossed my mind, yes."

"To be honest, I'm not surprised."

"At what, that I believe I was incredibly lucky?"

"Well, that," he said with a nod. "And that she picked you."

"Huh?"

"Let's be honest—she was always sweet on you. Even when she was still a lad, it wasn't half obvious she fancied you—I mean, now that we know and everything and it all makes sense." He shrugged. "And, well… the best man won."

"It wasn't a competition, Allan."

"No. But still, you're much better n'me."

"_Better…?"_ He gave him a questioning look.

"Sure," he said, grunting as he tried to shift his position and flopping down against the back of the sofa. "You're a dear and _irritatingly_ button-cute. You haven't got a dishonest bone in your body. You're the dearest human being alive—I don't think you've got the potential to be anything but _good._ And I'm, well… not."

"Let's not start that again, all right?" Will sighed. "We're not rivals. And before anything else, we're her _friends._ It would be a shame if we let this come between all of us."

Instead of answering, Allan groped at his pockets for something before reaching into the breast pocket and pulling out two folded pieces of card, photographs, and handing them over to him.

"What's this?" He asked as he took them.

"Have a look," he said with a nod. "I kept 'em with me the whole time. Whenever I got lonely, I'd look at these—remind me of home."

Now curious, Will unfolded the photos. One was a picture of the three of them together, sitting at a table at Much's Place. There was no date, but Will guessed that it was taken just prior to his departure. They all looked happy, Allan caught in mid-laugh and Djaq flashing a radiant smile across the table at the two of them; none of them were looking at the camera, instead looking as natural as if the scene was occurring right there. The second picture was just of Djaq—he knew right away when and where it was taken. She was in that dress, the one Marian gave her after he told her of his problem of trying to get her to come with him to the Christmas party two years ago. Somebody had clearly taken this photograph while she wasn't paying attention, sitting on a windowsill with her ankles hooked together and looking off into space with a dreamy expression on her face.

"You kept these with you the whole time?" He asked as he handed them back.

"Sure I did. It made you two seem a little less far away." He took the pictures and looked at them a moment, tracing his finger over the picture of just Djaq. "Everybody kept asking me if she was my girl—they all thought she was the cutest thing they'd ever seen. I said she wasn't, that she was just a mate, but that… maybe someday I'd get a second look from someone like her," he sighed as he tucked them back into his pocket.

Will didn't say anything, just waited for him to finish.

"They really don't make 'em any better'n our Djaq."

"I know."

They shared an understanding smile, and then lapsed into a comfortable silence. Both of them were quietly slipping in and out of awareness as they sat together on the sofa.

It was so wonderfully surreal to have Allan back, to have him sitting there in his house, alive and safe after so much uncertainty while he was away. He acted like nothing had changed, like he hadn't been away at all. Probably that was the way he preferred it to be, rather than dwelling on the time lost. That was just the way Allan was—childishness and joviality and humour suited him far better than seriousness. Watching Allan deal with serious negative emotion had once been described as "like watching the Chimp's Tea Party at the London Zoo"—incredibly awkward and a little ridiculous. Only without the possibility of getting hit with a chucked teacup.

But he was _here_ and he was in one piece. _Mostly_ in one piece, Will thought as he caught a glimpse of the cane propped up against the arm of the sofa. It still worried him that his friend hadn't said anything about the injury, and now that the initial relief of seeing him alive and well had worn off, he was beginning to get more than a little cross about it.

He hadn't wanted to cause a scene at the station by immediately jumping on him with the obvious question, but now they were in private—and he was still just a little drunk, and possibly open to answering more questions.

"So… what happened over there?" He asked finally.

"What, you want me to tell all those stories from the party again?" He asked back with a smirk.

He sighed. "No, I meant your leg. How did that…?"

"Oh. That." He shifted in his seat to sit up a little bit. "Land mines."

His eyes nearly popped out of his head. "You _stepped _on a _land mine?"_ He gasped, hardly believing what he'd just heard.

Allan laughed. "No—no, I didn't step on it!" He assured quickly. "If I'd stepped on one, they would have had to send the bits home in a matchbox."

"Oh." He didn't know whether to be relieved or disgusted. "So then how did you get hurt?"

"Well," he stretched his arms and folded them behind his head. "When it gets cold out, the mines warp a little—you know, the metal contracts. Sometimes it sets off the pressure pads and they go off. It happened one night while I was on guard duty. We were all pretty far away but most of us caught shrapnel in the explosion. I got it in the left side, and a bit went right into my knee." He reached down and gingerly touched the spot. "They sent me to a Swiss hospital so they could fix it—that was at the beginning of March. That's when I got my discharge, when they realized that I was gonna need more fixing up than just a quick stay in hospital. I can't fight with a bad leg, you know."

"You're lucky that was all that happened!"

"I know, I know—I could've lost a leg or worse."

Allan's dismissive attitude about the whole thing would have been aggravating if Will hadn't been so happy that he was home. And still a bit tipsy.

"So why didn't you tell us what'd happened?"

"I guess… I guess I was scared."

"Scared of _what?"_

He fidgeted and looked worried and uneasy as he looked tried to come up with the right words. He reminded Will, in a way, of Djaq, the way she tried to explain her masquerade as a boy. He, too, was trying to come up with the right words to explain himself now—a much more difficult undertaking for Allan, for certain.

"I guess I was just afraid of being a burden. Knowing I'd come back here crippled, I was afraid you'd…" he sighed and leaned forward, firmly rubbing his head in a nervous manner as he gathered his thoughts. "It's stupid now I thought about it—but I mean, I was sort of scared you guys would think I was, I dunno… weak."

His eyes nearly popped right out of his head. It was one of the only times that he could look back and say, quite honestly, that his mouth had fallen open in shock.

"Why would _we_ think you were _weak?_ Because you were hurt?"

"Yeah—stupid, isn't it?"

"_Yes."_

He laughed at himself, but it was wet and half-hearted. "'S not like I was injured in combat. It was an accident on a cold night. In a way, it's sorta embarrassing."

Pause.

"But I guess that's just me being vain."

"It _is_ you being vain."

"To be honest, I was a bit worried you might think I was a burden—you know, bum leg and all."

He smacked him across the back of the head. "Idiot! Look, mate," he scolded. "No matter what happens, we'll always love you. So stop worrying. And keeping secrets."

"You really mean that?" He asked suddenly. "That you love me?"

"Of course I do."

Before he realized what was happening, he was wrenched sideways by the arm around his neck, nearly suffocating him, and Allan kissed him on the head.

"I love you, mate. I really do," he snuffled wetly. A combination of drunkenness and sleepiness made him loopy and his speech was slurred. "And good god, I missed you. I don't ever wanna do that again. You guys're my family. I don't ever wanna be that far from you again."

Will pried his arm away and freed himself and hugged him tightly around his shoulders. "I know," he said.

"I'm glad you know. I'm glad you're my friend." He drooped a bit in his friend's grip.

"Maybe it's a good idea if we both went to bed," he suggested.

"Me _not_ with Djaq?" He teased.

Will punched him.

o…o

"Oh, my head…" Djaq whimpered. Her head was _pounding_ and she felt incredibly queasy; her limbs were shaky and she was sweaty and clammy all over. She gingerly sat up in bed, slowly, so as not to make her massive headache worse—though it seemed that any little noise or movement aggravated it. Her hip was inexplicably sore, as if she'd fallen down on it, but she didn't remember falling down. She didn't remember a whole lot of _anything,_ actually…

What had happened last night? She hardly remembered anything past having some drinks at Allan's party. How many drinks? A few—a few_ dozen?_ She honestly had no idea. She wasn't even a drinker, and after last night she didn't think she'd _ever_ drink again.

Now she was alone in bed. If Will had slept here last night, he was long gone. Normally, she hated waking up alone, but this morning she was more worried about surviving the day. She groped for the clock on the bedside table—how had she never noticed how _loud_ that ticking was before?—and was astonished to realize that it was after noon. She should have been panicking—after all, she'd overslept and was three hours late for work with no excuse—but it was more than she could manage to care about it.

With a groan, she rolled out of bed. Upon further inspection, she discovered that the sore hip was indeed bruised, all the way around to her behind and adding to the mystery. She was also just in her underwear and vest—probably Will had done that when he brought her to bed; at least she _hoped_ it was Will who brought her to bed—and she bumbled stiffly and clumsily around the room trying to find some clothes. Her legs felt like they were several seconds behind all of the commands her brain was sending; every movement made the pain in her head surge.

She walked very, very carefully down the stairs, trying to keep from jolting herself and causing _more_ pain. Then she made her way into the kitchen, clutching her head in her hands. Allan was sitting at the table with a sandwich and a book. He looked up when she walked in and smiled.

"Morning, sunshine," he said in a singsong voice. "Nice of you to come and rejoin the living."

"Please don't talk so loudly," she whinged. "It feels like my _eyes_ are going to explode."

"Bad hangover, eh?" He asked, getting up. "I'm not surprised, with all you drank last night."

"I cannot even remember _how much_ I drank last night."

"I dunno either, but it was a _lot._ And Will says you don't drink."

She nodded. "He is right. After this, I think I shall go back to not drinking."

"Good idea. Hangovers are no fun."

"You had one, as well?"

"Yep. I'm doing better now, though. Obviously."

She growled. "Lucky you."

"Sit down," he ordered, though his tone was soft and gentle. "I'll get you some tea."

"Thank you," she whispered. Even the sound of her own voice was painful.

"It's best if you eat something, as well."

"No food, please. I am afraid I might throw it up."

"Plain toast," he said sternly. "I don't wanna see you get sick, my darling."

"No flirting, Allan. I do not feel well enough for that."

"Wow," he remarked, pouring her tea. "You _must_ feel terrible."

She folded her arms in front of her and rested her forehead on the cool table.

"Do you take milk and sugar? Honey?" He asked.

"Cyanide."

He laughed. "We're all out, I'm afraid," he said as he stirred the tea. "I guess this means you'll just have to put up with the milk and honey." He set the cup down gently in front of her.

"Ow," she clutched her head at the sound of the porcelain on wood.

"Once you have some food in your stomach, you can take a few aspirin." He patted her back soothingly.

"Provided I do not throw up."

"You won't get sick."

She grunted softly and drank her tea.

For several moments, she was quiet, hesitating to ask the question; eventually, she decided to just ask it.

"What… exactly happened last night?"

When Allan laughed, she grew irritated and embarrassed at the same time.

"I'm sorry," he apologized quickly. "It's just… it's weird. You're _Djaq._ You aren't supposed to be the one who gets pissed at parties and can't remember what happened."

She buried her face in her hands in humiliation. "Oh, no. What happened?" She asked in a tiny little voice as her head began to whirl with the possibilities.

"You didn't do anything bad or dangerous!" He said quickly, reaching across the table to pat her free hand reassuringly. "I mean, you didn't… get up on the table and dance or put a lampshade on your head or anything like that."

"Then what happened?" She asked, hoping to find out what had happened to cause a bruise on her backside.

"Nothing," he said again. "Sorry!" He apologized when she grabbed her head, and lowered his voice. "We poured you into a cab and came here. Will put you to bed and that was it. Is something wrong?"

"I have a bruise on my behind—I want answers! Oww," she whimpered at the sound of her own voice reverberating through her head.

"Oh, that." He looked guilty. "I kinda dropped you on the front walk."

"You _dropped me?"_

"Yeah—sorry about that. You're a bit difficult to carry when you're asleep, being completely limp like that."

It was strangely untroubling to hear him say that. It meant, at least, that she hadn't done something stupid. It meant somebody _else_ had done something stupid. Satisfied with the answer, she turned her attention back to her tea and concentrated on getting over her hangover.

After a second cup of tea, something to eat, some aspirin, and a few minute's nap with her head down on the table, she felt mildly more human again; she had control of her limbs back, her stomach felt better, and though she still had a headache, at least her head stopped pounding at every little noise.

"You _look_ like you feel a lot better," Allan told her as he watched her sit up with a yawn.

She nodded and stretched. "I feel like I could probably do with a longer nap, though. How terrible is that?"

He shrugged. "It's not so bad. I mean, at least you won't be awake for the whole hangover."

"I suppose."

They fell silent at the table. Djaq was trying to do her daily crossword puzzle, only to discover that taxing her brain like this made her head and eyes hurt; Allan was still reading his book, which she was more than a little surprised to notice was _Moby Dick._

"How in the _world_ did you decide you were going to read _Moby Dick_?"She asked him.

He shrugged. "I've already read it before."

Amazed she asked, _"When?"_

"While I was away. One of the American G.Is had it as a comic book—it wasn't bad, but I figured there _had_ to be more to the story that they were leaving out."

Classic novels as a comic book? She shook her head—Americans were _strange._

"What?" He asked, noticing her expression.

"Nothing—I just think it is funny that somebody decided that classic novels would easily translate to comic books. And it is even stranger that _you_ were reading them. I always thought you were the type to be more interested in superheroes, and not a man obsessed with catching a whale."

Allan shrugged. "To be honest, sometimes you get so bored over there that you'll read absolutely anything. It was _there,_ so I read it. I was a bit surprised myself that it was interesting."

"Maybe it was the boredom," she suggested.

"Possibly," he conceded before he went back to his reading.

Silence.

Absently, her gaze fell to his leg, set straight out in front of him and propped up on a footstool. It pained her to see his injury—she hated the thought of her closest friend being injured so far from home.

"What's wrong?" He asked when he noticed her staring. "You wondering what happened?"

"Well… yes, I am. You did not tell us about it beforehand."

He nodded and began to explain—explained how he'd been injured by an accidental trip of a landmine and how he'd been sent to a hospital in a neutral country for surgery, explained his fear and why he was reluctant to tell either of them about the injury before he came home. When he got to the part about being worried what she and Will would think of him when he turned up injured—apparently afraid that they might think him a coward—she reached across the table and swatted him across the cheek with the back of her hand.

"What the hell was that for?" He demanded, looking more startled than angry.

"Because you are being silly," she scolded. "You know us better than that, Allan. _Both_ of us. Did you honestly think that we would love you less just because you were _hurt_ in a _war zone,_ of all places? I think we would have been more shocked and a bit suspicious if you came home without a scratch on you!" She sighed. "I will love you no matter what. Both of us will."

The shocked expression on his face slowly melted into a broad smile, that crooked grin that meant that he was greatly amused by a situation; he held that for only a few seconds before he began to laugh. Just laughed and laughed with his head tossed back and his arms folded across his belly. Apparently something was incredibly funny.

She waited for his laughter to subside before she asked the obvious question.

"What was _that_ all about?"

He wiped his streaming eyes and sniffled. "Will said almost exactly the same thing. The two of you," he said, shaking his head. "It's like you work on the same frequency."

Djaq frowned; she wasn't exactly sure if this was a compliment or an observation.

"I meant it as sort of a compliment," he told her, as if he'd read her mind. "I mean—you two are really very similar."

She grinned. "I suppose we are."

Another pause.

"Please tell me you are not worried about your leg. It does not bother either of us, you know, and you can stay with us as long as you like."

"Nah," he said with a grin. "It's just a leg. And besides, it's not like I'm _totally_ fucking useless just because I've got a bit of a limp."

Had it been anybody else, she might have been surprised at this decidedly flippant attitude about a leg. But considering that it was Allan, it didn't faze her at all.

"Just be careful, mind," she warned with a playful smile.

"This one still works, you know. I mean—I'll need another surgery and a bit of therapy, but it's not like it's _gone_ or anything. It's still there."

"Of course," she sighed.

"Besides—I've got another one," he announced with a jaunty grin.

She couldn't help it—she laughed. How like Allan to say something like this. The joke in itself wasn't even all that funny, and her laughter was mostly out of relief. Relief that he was still the same person that he was before he joined the army—that neither the military nor being in a war zone had sapped away his sense of humour.

Very little about Allan had changed, for which she was extremely grateful. The one thing that scared her more than the thought of him being killed was the thought of him changing into a completely different person after witnessing the horrors of war. She'd heard stories of men who came back from the war, suffering from intense battle fatigue, and were so changed that they cut family members and old friends out of their lives forever. If he'd died in combat, he would have been out of his misery; but if he had gone through some terrible personality change… he would have been lost.

The thought of him being still around but just a shadow of his former self had haunted her right up until… _now._ The reassurance that he was still the same person was an enormous relief.

"Glad I can still make you laugh," he said with that grin still on his face.

"I am, as well. To be honest, I would worry if you did not make jokes."

"Is that all I am to you, my love? I'm just good for a few giggles, eh?" He teased.

"Well, you _do_ have a pretty face, as well," she offered.

"So I'm a pretty jester—nice to know I mean so much to you."

A loud, barking laugh escaped her as she tried to muffle the sound with a hand over her mouth.

"I s'pose I shouldn't expect more than that. I mean, me'n Will are practically your _harem."_

She dissolved into a fit of giggles—oh, how she'd missed this.

"See? All you do is laugh at me," he said sadly, crossing his arms and sticking his bottom lip out in a mock-pout that looked so ridiculous on him that it just made her laugh more.

"Goodness, I've missed you," she breathed as she caught her breath again.

"Not half as much as I missed you, I don't think."

There was nothing she could say to this; he was probably right. So instead she nodded slowly.

Another silence grew between them. Djaq leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling and feeling the remaining pain in her head slowly subside into a dull, steady throb. Breakfast was starting to feel like a lump in her stomach, and once again she made an internal promise _never_ to drink again.

"So… where is Will?" She finally asked.

"He had a last-minute call. Something about some floors—he said he'd be back at about one."

"Oh." She frowned. "I am surprised he could manage it," she remarked.

"Well, he didn't have as much as we did. His drink total was still in the single digits."

"Please stop reminding me."

"Sorry."

"Talking of work—I ought to phone and apologize for missing today."

"Huh?"

"I was supposed to work today. But I've obviously overslept, and I am really in no shape to be going in and trying to do sums today."

"What, you didn't think I was worth taking time off of work for?" He teased.

"It is nearly impossible to get time off where I'm working now," she retorted. Slowly, all of her joints creaking in protest, she stood and reached for the telephone.

"Um, Djaq?"

"What?"

"Will already did that for you," he said. "He called in and told them you were sick and wouldn't be coming in."

"Oh." She leaned back in her chair and smiled. "That was… nice of him."

"Yeah—I think the best way to describe it is 'sweet'. That's just the way he is." He looked at her across the table. "But then, you know that already."

"I do, yes," she said, though she offered no further words. She knew how Allan had once felt about her, but wasn't sure whether or not he still had those feelings—and now somehow didn't seem the right time to ask. She had no interest in leaving Will in favour of Allan. Never mind the obvious rift and eventual falling-out that something like that would cause in their friendship—Djaq was pathetically besotted with her green-eyed carpenter. The idea of being with somebody else was unthinkable; she simply couldn't fathom it.

When she was completely honest with herself, she admitted privately that there was a point in time, years ago, when she fancied them both, and could imagine loving either of them, but for entirely different reasons. She loved Will for being a little shy and observant and for being sweetly and quietly attentive without smothering her—and Allan for being boyish and fun and for making her laugh and being almost devilishly handsome. In the long run, though, it was Will she loved; even _had_ she gone with Allan, she knew she would more likely than not have grown bored with him very quickly, because he was simply too much a little boy.

That was a long time ago, though. Now all that remained of her private girlish crush on her friend was the acknowledgement that he was wickedly, roguishly attractive and had a smile that could melt hearts.

"To be honest," he began, as if he was about to say something important. Then he stopped and sat staring at his hands for a long moment.

"Yes?" She prodded gently.

He seemed to bring himself out of his dazed state and smile genially at her. "You already know—it's not a secret that I fancy you."

"I know," she said with a nod. "You told me. Is something…?"

"I told you that it wasn't anything, but… I dunno anymore. I suppose I'm jealous of him."

"Jealous?"

"Sure," he said with a shrug. "He's got you."

"He has not _got_ me," she told him sternly. She hated that expression—it made her feel like a car, or something that required ownership papers. "It is not property changing hands. He loves me, I love him—that is all. I also love you."

"Djaq…" he took a deep breath. "Look, I know you love Will and there's nothing I can say or do that would make you want to leave him for me—and I wouldn't do that even if I could, 'cos it just wouldn't be fair to any of us. But that doesn't stop me from being jealous. I'm not half crazy for you. I don't wanna think about fucking up what we've got because I'm pathetic and lovesick—but it still doesn't stop me from wishing."

She felt her lower lip quiver, feeling both amazed and mildly guilty. Amazed that he was telling her all of this _now,_ and that she had never realized before just how deep his affection for her went; guilty because she simply couldn't love him the way he wished that she would. It was no fault of her own, and she knew this, but it didn't make it any easier to know that her friend was saddened by something about herself, and that there was nothing she could do for him about it.

"Allan, I am sorry," she whispered, not even entirely sure what she was apologizing _for._ "I… I wish I could—"

"Don't apologize," he said. His expression was still serious and his eyes were almost painfully sad. This had to be some sort of record for him, the longest he'd ever gone maintaining a serious emotional state. "It isn't your fault, is it? Not mine, either. It just happened."

"That is certainly true."

"I just—I don't know, I suppose I love you." He paused and sat up a bit straighter, making a face as if he'd just tasted something foul. He seemed to be rethinking his words. "No, wait… I don't know if 'love' is the right word. Maybe. Possibly…" he scratched his head. "It might be an overstatement to say I love you, but an understatement to say I'm just inordinately fond of you. I guess it doesn't have a word."

Whether he realized it or not, the more he talked the more he made Djaq realize that anything between Allan and herself would never have worked out well. He was indecisive, childish, and squeamish when it came to dealing with powerful emotion. She saw that, she recognized that—and he didn't.

Still, with him sitting there at the other side of the table looking at her like an injured puppy—it tugged her heartstrings, for certain. She couldn't help it; she felt badly for him.

Steeling herself, she stood and stepped over to him, standing before him with her hands on his drooping shoulders. She gently nudged him under his chin, coaxing him to look up at her; when he did, she leaned down and kissed him. It was just a small kiss, soft and brief, but his wide-eyed shock and beet red face made it look as if she had just sucked the tongue out of his mouth.

"What the hell was that for?" He rasped once he worked out how to use his voice again.

She shrugged and smiled. "Because."

He shook his head as his lips parted in a huge grin, and then he began laughing.

"Good lord, we really _are_ your harem!" He managed to gasp around his own laughter. "You just use us as you see fit, don't you?"

"Perhaps," she replied, but she was fairly sure that he didn't hear her.

She waited for him to exhaust himself for laughing, glad to see him back to his usual smiling self again, but the laughing was contagious and she found _herself_ laughing right along with him. The mood was light and wonderful, not at all like the intense sincerity of just seconds earlier—and she wouldn't have had it any other way.

They each sat in their seats as the laughter died away, wiping their streaming eyes on their shirt sleeves and breaking into occasional brief giggling fits every few minutes until, finally, they were quiet.

"Why were we laughing?" She gasped. "It was hardly comedy gold."

"Sure it was—you just don't know the finer points of humour."

"I imagine not. My pretty jester knows far more about it than I do," she teased.

"I have to pull double duty now, don't I?"

"Pardon?"

"I've got to be your good-looking jester _and_ your concubine. When am I supposed to sleep?"

She snorted and covered her nose and mouth in embarrassment.

There was a pause as he thought about something. Just when she was about to ask him what, he asked her, "Do we have to stop this now?"

"Stop what?"

"You know…" he sighed. "The flirting? What with you being practically _married_ and everything, I wouldn't want our darling William to think something that's not true."

"It's not needful," she said. "He does not think anything of it."

"Really? A good-looking guy like me is flirting with his woman, and he doesn't worry that I might steal you away from him?"

"I think he imagines that I have better taste than that."

He feigned a hurt look. "Oh," he sighed sulkily.

"Looks like you are still stuck being my concubine."

It was his turn to snort now. "God, I've missed you," he said. "And you _really_ don't think it'll matter if we keep this up?"

"Of course not—he knows both of us far better than that. And anyway—if we were to stop flirting, we might as well stop _talking._ We do not know any other way to talk to each other."

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

_("Habibi" _means "my love" in Arabic.)

For the Americans in the audience: legal drinking age in the UK is eighteen. None of the characters are breaking any laws by getting shit-faced before the age of 21. (By now, Allan and Will are both 20, and Djaq is eighteen.) English cider is about 8 alcohol, and is indeed _very_ sneaky. Really. Don't ask how I know this, just accept that I do.

Since this story is getting close to the milestone 100 reviews, I feel like having a bit of fun and doing the fanfiction equivalent of a free giveaway. _Whoever leaves the 100__th__ review wins a request one-shot._ Be sure to leave your email address (if you review anonymously—remember, only I can see your email!) or turn your PM function on (if you're logged in) so I can notify the winner!


	15. September, 1943

You might notice that the chapters actually have _titles_ now! I was at the most recent of _many_ lulls in writing and decided that the Roman numerals looked boring, so I thought up chapter titles. I swear I'm still writing, though!

So far, I've been managing to remember to drag my butt out of bed and post before I go to work in the morning. Every so often, I might oversleep (or forget—I'm not perfect!) and not get to post until I get back between 3-5pm, but believe me, _you will get a chapter no matter what!_ I'm also keeping a notebook with me on the job so I can write when I have a break in activity. Hopefully I won't fall too terribly far behind in writing, but I might skip a week here or there if I run out of chapters. Sorry in advance if this happens! I _promise_ that this story _will_ be finished and that I won't abandon it!

Disclaimer: Don't own, no copyright infringement intended, not stealing—you get the idea.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**September, 1943**

The late afternoon sky was tinged orange and pink through the clouds. Night fell early these days, and it both looked and _felt_ much later than it really was; Will struggled to stay awake on the train, but sitting in the warm and quiet compartment, with the gentle rocking motion of the car, he found himself slipping in and out of sleep. Earlier, there was an extremely talkative woman who shared the compartment, and she kept him awake with her constant talking and her questions. She was nice enough, if a little nosy and a bit of a chatterbox. She spent the entire hour and a half between Scarborough and Sheffield asking him questions about himself, about where he came from and where he was going—and then filling in the time in between with anecdotes about her _own_ family, her brother and her nieces and nephews she'd just visited in Middlesbrough.

And then the train pulled into the Sheffield station, where his seatmate disembarked, leaving him all by himself in the compartment with nothing to combat his steadily increasing drowsiness.

The weekend went by very quickly; he took the last train out on Friday night, leaving Djaq at home with Allan, and spent the weekend with Luke and Auntie Annie before taking an early evening train back into Nottingham this Sunday. The visit was pleasant, but rushed. He'd have liked to have a longer stay, because he hadn't seen his brother since the summer when he came to visit for a few days in July, just after the summer holidays began. That trip was entirely too quick, as well. They could hardly catch up. Part of him felt that familiar, sick guilty feeling at seeing his little brother again after so many months. Lukey was nearly fifteen now, and he was missing so much. He had a _girlfriend_ these days; Will kept thinking of him as a young boy to whom girls were a completely different species.

It was upsetting to him that he missed so much, just because he hadn't been well enough, after their father died, to look after his little brother and felt that the best choice was to send him away. It was always with the intention to have him back once he sorted himself out, but that hadn't happened; it wouldn't have been fair to him, he decided, to pick him up and move him _again_ just when he'd been used to living with Auntie Annie. Seeing how well he was doing, he felt both reassured that he was doing well in their aunt's care, and saddened because he couldn't be there for him.

Of course, he'd really wanted Djaq to come along with him—Luke loved Djaq like, as he described it, "A combination brother _and_ sister," and looked forward to the rare occasions when he could see her. But coming to Scarborough would have meant leaving Allan by himself in the house, and neither of them was entirely comfortable with that idea. So she stayed behind, with the promise of coming with him another time.

He'd mentioned this only in passing to his former compartment-mate, thinking nothing of it, and the woman looked quite shocked. He didn't understand this himself until she explained it to him—did he trust his girlfriend and his best friend so implicitly that he didn't suspect _anything_ to happen while he was gone? This was an entirely new thought to him, and apparently his face had shown it because she immediately apologized for bringing it up. The best he could do was to explain to her that none of them—himself, Djaq, or Allan—would take that sort of idiot chance and ruin five- and ten-year friendships.

The truth was that he _did_ trust them, both of them. How could he not? They were the closest friends he'd ever had, that he ever _would_ have. Djaq was honest and implicitly good; Allan talked a lot, but when it came down to it, he wouldn't dare to do anything. Neither of them would want to hurt him, or one another.

That, and Djaq just didn't fancy Allan. He was _very_ secure in this. Any time somebody made the suggestion, in ignorance, that she and Allan should be—or _were—_together, her response was an emphatic and automatic, "Ew!" She was far more likely to beat up on Allan than she was to sleep with him; actually, she _did_ beat up on him. But then, he did as well, but that didn't mean anything.

He knew he was fortunate to have the friends he did; he wasn't sure if any other young man could trust their friends with their girlfriends. Particularly when he _knew_ that his friend had once been in love with her. Perhaps he really _was_ extremely naïve and entirely too trusting, and was just _very_ lucky that his friends were so honest and trustworthy.

Whatever the reason, he had absolutely no worry about Djaq and Allan.

The train was still steadily lulling him to sleep as it rumbled along. He kept trying to keep himself awake by pinching himself, just so he didn't miss his stop. But it didn't actually help, and eventually he dropped off completely to sleep and _stayed_ asleep for the rest of the journey.

When the train finally rolled to a stop at his station, it was _just_ sudden enough that he rolled right off of the seat and to the floor, startling him out of his peaceful sleep and into wakefulness. At first he panicked in realization that he'd fallen asleep, not knowing if he'd missed his stop or not, but when he lurched to his feet—soundly bashing his head on the luggage rack above him—and looked out the window, he saw the signs for Nottingham and sighed with relief.

He expected to see both Allan and Djaq waiting for him as he stepped off the train, as they said they would be, but was surprised to see only Allan present.

"You all right, mate?" His friend asked as he approached him. They clapped each other on the back as a way of greeting.

"Hello—where's Djaq?"

"What, your good friend comes to see you at the station and all_ you_ can think to say is 'where's Djaq'?" He teased.

"You said you were both going to be here. Unless she's… indisposed?" He phrased it as delicately as he could.

"No, she's not in the ladies or anything. She didn't come. She's chasing ducks around."

Will raised his eyebrows. "Is that some sort of code?"

"No, it's true. I, uh… sort of left the duck shed open and they all escaped. Djaq stayed home to round them up, and I came _here_ to keep from getting my ass kicked."

"She's angry with you?"

"'Course she is. They're her ducks, aren't they? If something happens to them, we don't get any more eggs."

He laughed at him. "So what makes you think that she won't just kick the crap out of you when we get home, eh? All you've done is postpone your execution."

"Maybe—or maybe my being out of the house for a couple of hours was enough to let her cool off and she'll let me off with just a small ass-kicking."

"A few _hours?"_ He asked, surprised. "You can't have been waiting here that whole time."

"I didn't. I had a drink and a bite at Much's place before walking out here."

"Time well spent, then?"

"Well, you remember what the doctors told me," he defended himself. "The only way to make sure my leg gets back to normal is to keep walking on it."

"I'm sure the drink helped."

"'Course!"

Allan had needed one last surgery on his left knee, where he'd received the worst of his injuries, in order to put him to rights. Afterwards he was laid up for weeks, keeping him housebound for the better part of two months; as soon as the recovery period was over, the doctor instructed him to get back to walking as much as possible. He no longer needed his cane, except if he knew he was going to be out walking for long periods of time, but he still walked with a little limp. He probably always would.

"How's that doing, anyway?" Will asked. "I notice you don't have the stick today—or was that accidental when you fled the house?"

He laughed. "Naw, I don't really need it today. And the leg's doing pretty well, actually. Except apparently I'm always going to know when it's gonna rain."

"Be sure to let us know about it, then, so we know when not to water the garden."

"That how I'll earn my keep?" He asked.

"Sure. Now walk on—I'm anxious to get home."

"Yeah, two _whole days_ without Djaq's probably made you a bit crazy, didn't it?"

Will smacked the back of his head. "Shut up and walk," he ordered even as he smiled.

Grinning, he obeyed, and the pair headed out of the station and into the crisp chill of the early evening. Their long, skinny shadows stretched into the road in the dimming yellow-orange light of dusk. Will slung his bag over his shoulder and walked alongside Allan as they talked. His friend walked much slower and rather unsteadily on his limp. It wasn't nearly as bad as it was when he'd first come home, but Will still had to concentrate on keeping his pace slower to accommodate him.

"How's your brother?"

"Same as always—pretty well," he said. "He's got a girlfriend now."

"You're kidding!" He laughed in surprise. "Good lord, how old is he? Isn't he a bit young for that?"

"He's nearly fifteen."

"_Fifteen?"_ He gaped. "I can't see him as anything except your irritating little kid brother."

"You and me both."

"Did you meet her, or did he just keep her some big secret?"

"He didn't actually tell me. Auntie did. I think my eyes nearly popped out of my head when she said it, though."

"No kidding."

"As far as I'm concerned, he's permanently nine years old. It just doesn't bear thought."

"Crazy, that."

"What, are you _that_ surprised that my brother's attractive to at least _one_ member of the opposite sex?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "It's sort of weird, that's all. I mean… he's your brother and all, but I haven't seen him since the summer, and before _that_ I hadn't seen him since he left back when—" he stopped himself with a guilty look.

"Since my dad died. I know."

"Every time I turn around, he's grown up more. It's just… weird," he repeated.

"I know."

Silence.

"You feeling guilty?" Allan asked.

He nodded. "A bit, yes," he admitted with a sigh. "I mean—he's my little brother, and I keep missing so much."

"Well…" he began slowly, then scratched the back of his neck in thought before he continued. "You have the room, and you have the resources—you _could_ have him back, you know."

"I know that. I _could."_

"So… are you?"

"I can't," he sighed again. "It just wouldn't work."

"How do you figure that?"

"If he came and lived with me, I'd have to look after him—not that I'd _mind_ looking after him but… I'm not his father. I'm his brother. But I'm afraid I'll try to act more like a parent to him, and that wouldn't be any good at all. And I couldn't bring myself to uproot him _again;_ he's just used to living with Auntie, it wouldn't be fair to do that to him again."

"I guess you have a point. Still, it's awful that the only option that works is for you to be apart from him."

"I know."

Silence. Neither of them could think of anything to say as they walked, and so they continued on in quiet for several long moments.

"Auntie Annie wants us to come up and stay with her for Christmas again this year," Will said, breaking the quiet between them.

"Oh yeah?" He perked up. "You and Djaq trust me enough to leave me in the house?"

"No."

"Oh."

"You're invited as well."

He raised his eyebrows. "Am I really?" He asked eagerly.

"Yeah—Auntie said it wouldn't be fair to have the two of us there without you, as well."

"She wouldn't mind putting me up, even though I'm not related to her?"

"She lets Djaq stay there," he said with a shrug.

"Djaq's your girlfriend."

"And you're my mate." He shrugged. "Look, just think about it. We've got quite a bit of time before then, so you don't have to give me an answer straight away," he said.

"I just have trouble believing that your aunt has room for this many people in her place."

"We can move people about, double up in rooms."

Before the words even left his mouth, he immediately wished he hadn't as he saw Allan's mouth turn up in a grin.

"Where do I sleep, then?" He teased, before adding the obvious joke. "With you and Djaq?"

"You can sleep on the floor like any dog," he shot back.

Clearly not expecting _that_ reply, Allan burst into fits of laughter so forceful that he had to stop walking and leaned on a mailbox for several moments, with his head on his arms as he laughed into them.

Will waited patiently for him to calm down so they could continue walking, but apparently "you can sleep on the floor like any dog" was the funniest line ever uttered in the history of all of comedy, and just as Allan looked like he was going to calm down and stand up, he would collapse again and start howling. The process was repeated a few times as he stayed there, standing against the post box, his shoulders shaking, and his whole body heaving with surprisingly forceful, silent laughter. He slapped his hand against the metal top, now sporting an expanding puddle of drool, and occasionally gasped for breaths before laughing even more.

"Are you all right down there?" Will asked after a while.

"Yes!" His voice was a rasping squeak between bursts of laughter. He sounded like a squirrel, if a squirrel could talk.

"Are you_ sure?_ You sound like you're having some sort of a fit."

"I'm fine. Really," he assured, taking deep breaths and standing upright as he tried to keep a straight face. He held it for only a few seconds before it faltered and he had to lean back on the red metal box and laugh again, this time laughing so hard that he had to clutch the thing with both arms in an effort to keep from falling on the ground.

Allan's amusement was always catching, even when the cause of his mirth wasn't even too terribly funny to begin with; something about him made his laughter terribly, terribly contagious. Soon Will couldn't keep himself from snorting with suppressed laughter as he watched his friend laugh. When he couldn't hold it in any longer, he, too found himself holding tightly onto the post box and laughing so hard that he could barely breathe.

He knew nobody else whose laughter was quite as infectious as his good friend's was. It was, of course, part of the reason why he loved him so much; he was more fun than almost anybody else. He could find humour in absolutely anything, which was always a good thing for times when Will found himself being a bit overwhelmed and a little too serious. Djaq's offhand comment about Allan being "the jester" was surprisingly true the more he thought about it. He wasn't _only_ good for laughing at—it was just something he was very good at.

The sight of two men grasping the box and dissolved in fits of hysterics—or perhaps just _fits—_was enough to actually frighten a few people away from the mailbox; one or two of them looked back over their shoulders at them with deeply contemplative looks on their faces, as if wondering whether or not to phone for an ambulance.

It was an awful cycle that continued for several minutes; one of them would calm down enough to let go and upright himself and begin to compose himself, only to make eye contact with the other, who was still struggling for air around guffaws and would emit one tiny noise, and both would dissolve once again into fits.

They _finally_ stopped laughing when their stomachs hurt and they were all but out of breath. Both of them still leaned on the box for support, wiping their eyes and trying to catch their breath as they composed themselves.

They waited a few seconds, testing to see if they could trust themselves not to burst out laughing again, but fortunately it seemed they were finally out of steam.

"Are you done?" Allan asked.

"I think so—you?"

"Pretty sure."

"Right," Will said. "We should probably get a move on, get home before it gets too late. And dark."

"What's wrong?" His friend teased. "Are you afraid of the dark? Don't worry, I'll be your big strong soldier friend and protect you from the things that go 'bump' in the night."

"Come _on,"_ he growled, pulling him along by the shoulder.

Instead of cracking more jokes, Allan just followed obediently.

They had barely gone a hundred yards when they were interrupted again, this time by a figure charging from a shop front and running across the road, making two cars screech to a halt and their drivers hang out of the windows, swearing. But whoever it was took no notice and was instead leaping enthusiastically unto the air; the man—Will was sure it was a man—whooped and yelled and laughed as he jumped about. In front of the posh tea-room from which the man had just come, there stood a dark-haired woman with her head in her hands, either laughing or crying at the display before her.

"She said yes! _She said yes!"_ The man cried out, sounding deliriously happy.

"What? Who? What the hell's going on here?" Allan demanded, trying to turn around quickly enough to keep track of the enthusiastic man.

He finally slowed and came to stand before them, bent double with his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. It was Robin.

"What just happened?" Will asked.

"It's Marian," he panted as he stood upright. The smile he wore was so wide that it looked almost as if his whole face might break from the strain. "I asked her, and she said yes—we're getting married!"

Green eyes went wide in surprise—though practically everyone in Nottingham pretty much _knew_ that Robin and Marian would one day get married, but it had been such a long time that nobody was sure when they _would_ make it official.

"Oh, really?" Allan was saying. "Well, congratulations!" He swung his arm around the man's shoulders and clapped him roughly on the back in a half-hug.

"Yeah, congratulations," Will echoed, reaching out to shake Robin's hand. It was _about time_ he and Marian tied the knot.

"You'll both come, right?" He asked eagerly. "Djaq, as well?"

They both paused and looked at each other with matching confused expressions before Allan spoke.

"Um—sure. Do we have time to go home and get changed first?"

"Robin," the dark-haired woman from the doorway of the tea-room was Marian. She still had her hand against her forehead in an exasperated manner, even though the happiness in her face was obvious and she wore a smile that mimicked Robin's. She was absently wiping a tear from her rosy cheek, though whether they were tears of joy or from laughter, he didn't know. She was just as happy about this as Robin was, only she was keeping it in better. "Robin, my love, calm yourself—we're not getting married right this very moment."

"Why not?" He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in an inquiring manner with an impish smile on his face. "With my luck you might change your mind!"

"Oh, hush that," she scolded, still smiling. "I shan't change my mind."

"I should hope not," he purred softly, taking her hand and delicately brushing his lips across them. "It would break my heart."

"You ought to be on your best behaviour until then," she replied even as she giggled in response.

"There _will_ be a wedding, right?" Allan asked. "I mean, practically everybody here's been waiting for this for as long as I can remember—it'd be a bit of an anticlimax if you just went to the Registry Office."

"Of course there will be," she said quickly. "And I'm _sure_ I can invite all of you."

"If we're not getting married this afternoon, then I think a guest list can wait a bit," Robin said. "We should first spend the next few days informing everybody in Nottingham."

"We don't have to tell _everybody—!"_

"Yes we do. I've been waiting for this for a _long_ time."

Marian grinned and blushed like a teenager in love; Robin then stooped and lifted the woman up in his arms, despite her giggling protests, and carried her, bridal style, back into the tea-room.

"_Oof! _Don't do that, Robin!" She chastised as he walked. "Put me down!"

"No, no—I should get used to carrying you over thresholds," he replied coolly with a smile on his face, hefting her in his arms. They continued to argue affectionately as they left.

Will and Allan both watched them with raised eyebrows and bemused expressions while Robin walked away. They looked at one another, and then at their friend's retreating back, and then back to one another again, wondering if they had both seen the same thing or if this was some sort of hallucination.

"Well…" Allan began, trailing off and scratching his head instead of adding anything. It seemed that he was just as dumbfounded as Will felt.

"That was… interesting?" He offered.

There was a brief pause as they both thought.

Allan grinned and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Looks like we're invited to a wedding, mate!"

"It would seem so."

"About time, isn't it?"

Will nodded.

"I mean, it's only been, what—ten years?"

"I imagine it took that long just to wear each other down."

"If that's the case, I'm surprised he managed it that _quickly._ Marian's _got_ to be a tough egg to crack."

"That'll be an interesting household, for certain," Will said, shaking his head.

Robin and Marian—it couldn't _possibly_ be any other way, but for two people so naturally inclined to take the role of the leader in any situation _and_ with an inherent stubbornness that simply would _not_ compromise, it was more or less inevitable that they would clash at least _sometimes._ More often than they did now, in any case. It was impossible to imagine that they would somehow magically stop arguing after marrying, as well—their arguing was just one of the many things that made them Robin-and-Marian, a unique entity.

Over the years, he'd watched the two of them together in a kind of curious awe; because they were so different from other people, and because they were so unintentionally dramatic, so much that radio programmes and films became redundant when all anybody had to do for entertainment was watch the pair of them together just to see what would happen. They were all-around a curious pair. Whereas most men would have long ago given up hoping for Marian because of her stubborn independence, a trait that many men of her background would find wholly unappealing, but that seemed to be one of the things that drew Robin to her; and while most women would have shied away from the reckless boyishness and the desire to help others in Robin, Marian loved them in him.

It often amazed him that two people so clearly meant for each other that _Allan_ could plainly see it were taking such a long, long time to make anything of it. Whether it was due to their sometimes dangerously heated arguments, mutual stubbornness, a certain disinclination to want to be the first to crack, or a combination of all three, nobody could be completely sure. And yet they were so obviously _infatuated_ with one another. As he grew older and knew both of them better, they were easier to read; despite all of the fighting and arguing and the apparent unfeasibility that they could survive together as a married couple without killing one another, he knew that they loved each other.

They argued, he imagined, only because it would keep them on their toes. The one thing that _would_ put either of them off the other was the idea of life together becoming _boring_ or _routine._ And while they were _finally_ getting married, it didn't seem right to think that either of them was about to "settle down", so to speak. Robin would still be on the lookout for people who needed his help—the only difference would be that he would be bringing Marian along with him.

Of course, the world simply wouldn't make sense if it hadn't all turned out this way.

Will kicked a stone on the pavement, sending it clattering across the darkening road as he thought. It was perhaps a little unfortunate that the only template for love he had to go on were _Robin and Marian;_ he knew they weren't typical. Far from it. Other than them, a few memories and stories told about his parents when they were younger, John and Alice Little, and some of his clients that he knew a little better than others, he had absolutely _no_ idea how to gauge himself and Djaq. _They_ weren't exactly normal themselves, either.

The most obvious atypical aspect was their being different races, something that was largely frowned upon. Sometimes the easiest way to make people get off of his back about not being with a "nice British girl", which did happen every so often, was to lie and say that Djaq came from India and was therefore British; it wasn't a _complete_ lie, after all. The pair of them had been living under the same roof for some years now. And sleeping together, but nobody but their closest friends knew of _that._ Neither of them would particularly have cared who knew about this—after all, they weren't apologetic or ashamed of it in the least—but it was simply one of those things that Just Wasn't Done, despite the fact that significantly more people did it than would openly admit to such things. It was something that people liked to pretend simply never happened, but they knew better. They were just… _different_ from the norm.

The idea of marriage began to seep into his thoughts as he walked, absently nodding his head occasionally and pretending to pay attention to Allan while getting himself thoroughly lost in his own head. He couldn't help but ponder it—he hadn't really given the idea of marriage any thought before now. After all, why should he? He and Djaq were barely more than children themselves; she was only nineteen and he was just a year older. They were far too young for this sort of thing.

It seemed, though, that that was where it was going. He loved her completely, and the thought of _not_ being with her hadn't occurred to him. Ever. He couldn't imagine growing tired of her, or finding some previously hidden vice that put him right off of her; and though he couldn't speak for her, he didn't think she would, either. She had never said anything to him about marriage, and seemed perfectly content to keep things the way they were, and until now, so was he.

And yet…

"Hey, Will, look out—!"

"Hunh?"

_Thunk!_

Paying absolutely _no_ attention to what he was doing, he'd walked into a telephone pole.

Allan was laughing again, quite heartily at his expense. "You all right?" He asked between gasps for air.

"I'm fine."

"God, you weren't even on this _planet,_ were you?"

"Not really," he replied absently, turning away from the pole and heading back along on his way.

"What's wrong?" He asked, suddenly much more sombre as he walked alongside him.

"Nothing," he lied. "Just thinking about Robin and Marian."

"Uh-huh," Allan grunted sceptically. "I saw that look on your face. You're not thinking about them."

"Maybe not completely."

"You're not thinkin' about getting _married,_ are you?"

Pause.

"_Are you?"_

"I—I don't know," he answered truthfully.

Allan quirked an eyebrow.

"No—maybe. I—don't know!" He stuttered, finally deciding on the best indecisive answer he could come up with. "Maybe someday."

"Djaq's not been making noises about wanting to get married, has she?"

"No. As far as I know she hasn't even thought about it."

"I was gonna say—that doesn't sound like her."

"You think she wouldn't _want_ to?" He asked, suddenly worried. Having never given a great deal of thought to the subject of marriage, he likewise had no reason to wonder—or ask—what Djaq might think or feel on the subject. She was so unconventional in other ways that it wouldn't surprise him in the least if she was less than enthusiastic about the idea of marriage.

But he didn't feel exactly right suddenly broaching the topic with her when it hadn't come up in the three years they'd been together.

"What're you asking me for?" Allan snorted. _"You're_ supposed to be the intuitive one, not me. I'm just saying, it seems a bit out of character for her to be pining about a long white dress and a fancy wedding."

The picture of Djaq in a flowing, glittering white princess gown flashed through his head, and the image was in such a stark contrast to the woman he knew and loved that a barking laugh escaped him before he could compose himself.

That would never work.

"Did you hear the news?" Much asked excitedly, surprising them by stepping out from the front door of his restaurant and into their path just as they were passing by.

"Yeah," Allan nodded, answering for both of them. "It's great, isn't it?"

"_Great?_ It's fantastic is what it is! What everybody's been waiting for!"

"Well, sure—everybody _here,_ anyway," Allan said, looking slightly taken aback by Much's apparent enthusiasm at Robin's engagement. Will knew that he and Robin were good friends; Much had once worked for Robin and his father, years ago, as a cook before he gave Much the money to open a restaurant as he'd always wanted to do.

"What makes this place different from any other?" Much asked, indignant, arms crossed and with an impatient look on his face.

"Uh…" Allan trailed off.

"It might just be that we _know_ him," Will supplied.

"Know who? Mussolini?"

Will blinked, scratching his head; that made no sense at all. Mussolini was the head of the Italian Fascist Regime—where would _he_ come up in a conversation about Robin's engagement?"

"What the hell are you _talking about?"_ Allan asked in utter bewilderment.

Much looked from Will to Allan and back again, equally confused as to why neither of them understood what he was talking about.

"Haven't you heard?" He asked. "Italy surrendered! The war's turning around!"

"Really?" Will asked.

"Yeah—why, what did you _think_ I was so happy about?"

"Robin's getting married," he said.

The man's eyes opened wide and his mouth popped open in shock. "He's _what?"_

"He's getting married."

Pause.

"Robin's getting _married?"_

"Italy surrendered?"

Pause.

"Who's he marrying?"

Will smacked his forehead and rubbed the hand slowly down his face, leaving Allan to answer the question for him.

"To _Marian_ you idiot!"

"Thank goodness, you had me worried there for a second." He turned back around and headed back into the restaurant, yelling, "Hey, everybody—Robin and Marian are getting married!" Through the closed door, both young men could hear shouts of, "About time!" and "Finally!" coming from the various patrons and staff.

Instead of hanging about, they left Much's restaurant and headed for home, determined to get there before it was too late and too dark. By the time they arrived, the sun was sinking low on the horizon. The wind was beginning to pick up, bringing an icy nip into the air as they plodded up the front path and stopped at the front door.

"We're home!" Will called as they walked into the house. He shuffled into the hall and let Allan in, calling out again. "Djaq?"

"Kitchen!" She called from the back of the house.

He dropped his suitcase near the stairs and hurriedly dropped his coat onto one of the pegs by the door before trotting around to the kitchen where Djaq was standing over a pot of stew on the stovetop. She looked over her shoulder at him and smiled.

"Hello," she said, coming over and greeting him by wrapping her arms around his chest and hugging him. "How was your weekend?"

"A bit mad—but you know my aunt."

"Mm," she murmured, standing taller to give him a little kiss on the lips.

"Have I interrupted something?" Allan asked cheekily from the doorway.

"Not yet, but in ten minutes you might have," Will warned him.

Djaq giggled at his joke; Will leaned down and kissed her cheek. She hooked her chin over his shoulder to look around him; when she saw Allan, she frowned and let go of Will to walk up to her friend, swatting him across the cheek with the back of her hand, her eyebrows knit in an angry expression. He looked shocked at first and then gingerly put his hand over the spot where she'd hit.

"What the hell?" He whimpered, his eyes wide.

"_You_ are lucky I am in a good mood—you let my ducks out! I'm missing one!" She chastised him, prodding him roughly in the chest with her forefinger and looking sternly up at him; Allan's mouth was open slightly, giving her that "kicked puppy" look in hopes of getting her to stop scolding him. It wasn't working. "If you do anything stupid like that again, I reserve the right to kill you!"

"Don't you think that's a bit harsh for letting _one_ duck go missing?"

"No."

She was serious.

"All right, then," he said meekly. "If you say so…"

"Is this how it's been here all weekend?" Will asked.

"More or less," she replied.

"You should be nice to me, Djaq," their friend pouted. "Or I won't tell you the great news we heard on the way home."

"You mean about Italy's surrender?" She asked casually, punctuating her remark with a smirk, a little turn of the corner of her mouth that made Will's stomach leap.

God, she was _gorgeous._

That thought came into his head out of nowhere. Except that it was true. She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever met—lovelier in her old jeans with the hole in the knee and a striped shirt than any woman could even approach, even in their finest clothing. He'd long told her that he felt this way about her, but he wasn't sure if she believed him completely. It seemed such a shame that she was so beautiful, and yet didn't fully believe it when told.

Of course, being pretty wasn't everything—he wasn't shallow. He loved everything about her, including her irritating habits. Like her habit of tearing the crossword out of the newspaper and taking it with her to work before he'd had the chance to read the paper, and thus often left with huge chunks of news stories missing. Her defense of this practice was, "At least I do not take the _whole _paper." He loved her cleverness, her wit and humour, her sometimes no-nonsense attitude.

The way she knew him so well that it sometimes felt as though she read his mind.

Just… _everything._ Even her ability to press exactly the right buttons to tease him mercilessly.

Everything she did, every little move she made, seemed almost carefully planned and chosen purely to send him reeling—even when he knew she wasn't thinking about it. And then there were the times that she _did_ do things deliberately, doing exactly what she knew would drive him up the walls. He never admitted it to her, though she probably already knew, but he loved it when she drove him absolutely mad.

He forced himself out of his head, turning his attention back to the conversation going on in the kitchen.

"How'd you know about that?" Allan was asking her, surprised.

"It was in the evening paper, _and_ it was on the radio," she explained, her tone suggesting that this was incredibly obvious and why didn't he work that out for himself.

"Oh," was all he said.

"I don't think that's what he was talking about, though," Will pointed out. He nodded to Allan, who looked over at him with first a questioning expression, and then a smile and a nod.

"He's right—that's not the news."

"It isn't?" She asked, leaning back against the granite countertop and supporting herself on her elbows. "Then what is?"

"Ask me _nicely,"_ he drawled.

Dark eyebrows climbed her forehead as she looked at him, keeping silent.

"Well?"

Will sighed. "Marian and Robin are engaged."

Allan glared at him while Djaq threw her head back and laughed.

"Oh, thank _goodness,"_ she breathed when her laughter subsided. "It is about _time_ they got married—the sexual tension in that relationship is so thick you could cut it with a knife and spread it on toast!"

Pause.

How she managed to come up with a statement that was at the same time ridiculous and completely true was beyond him. Both he and Allan began snorting at the absurdity of it, muffling their laughter into their cupped hands.

"_What?"_ Allan snorted, speaking for both of them.

"I am sorry. That sounded so much better before it came out of my mouth," she offered as a way of an excuse.

"I'm sure it did!"

"I think they've invited all of us, as well," Will said.

"They are planning a guest list _now?"_ Djaq asked. "When are they getting married? Next week?"

"I have no idea," he admitted with a shrug. "Robin just sort of… flew out of a shop front and told us about the engagement and asked us if we'd come, all in the same breath. Wouldn't surprise me if they were trying to work everything out _right now,_ as far as wedding plans go—but you know what they're like."

"That I do," she nodded. Then she added in a gentle command, "Come on, help me to lay the table so we can eat."

He obeyed, smiling.

"How'd you keep making so much food appear out of what we're allowed every week?" Allan was asking, sneaking a bite out of the cooling pot on the stovetop.

"Witchcraft," she declared without missing a beat. She looked over and saw what he was doing, and immediately snapped the ladle out of his hand. "And _get your filthy hand_ out of my pot or I will cut it off!"

Allan stuck his bottom lip out; Will laughed.

"Seriously, though—it's like you make food appear out of _nowhere,"_ their friend said. "I don't know how you do it."

She shrugged. "I have learned how to be thrifty. With everything."

"I guess that's growing up, eh?"

"I suppose it is."

As they sat at the kitchen table, they talked over their bowls of stew and talked of the two most welcome pieces of news. There was a great deal of mutually shared surprise and relief about the recent engagement—even from Djaq, who hadn't lived in Nottingham terribly long but knew from others as well as from Marian that their courtship had been on for the last ten years. All three of them found themselves looking forward to the wedding. After all, if there was one thing Robin Locksley knew how to do, it was throw a party. And if he knew Robin, the man would spare absolutely no expense for this wedding.

It wouldn't have surprised him if Robin was even more excited about this than Marian was. He'd always been a little bit more openly affectionate than she was.

Will didn't know what, exactly, it said about them that they were almost happier about the news of Robin and Marian's engagement than they were about one of the Axis powers surrendering, and thus ever so slightly shifting the balance more towards the Allied forces. Of course, no two people in the world deserved to get married more than they did. Although, having lived with the war never far from their collective spheres of awareness for so many years, they all knew better than to get their hopes up too high; after all, things had gone back and forth now between the two sides almost since the war started. Even after the Germans stopped dropping bombs on their country and returned, defeated and humiliated, to Germany, they knew better than to hope too much.

Still—this was something quite a bit more significant. One of the major players in this game was out, leaving just Germany and Japan. Something about it seemed… possible.

"What do you make of it, Allan?" Djaq asked across the table. "You are the one with military experience, not us."

"I was in the army, following orders," he grunted in reply, absently using his spoon to drown a piece of bread in his bowl. "I really don't think that qualifies me as an experienced military tactician, does it?"

Djaq raised her eyebrows at him. Then he shrugged.

"I dunno," he said finally. "It's sort of hard to get people to fight when their cause looks hopeless. You know, troop morale and all." He paused, splattering the back of his spoon against the floating bits of bread. "I suppose that could be good. Not good that there are people who're feeling like crap because their country was just overrun—good because there's that one little chink in the war. It's not _much_ but I guess it's something."

"So what's that mean in English?" Will asked.

Another pause. More splattering.

"Stop that. If you make a mess, _you_ are cleaning it up," Djaq warned him, placing her hand on his wrist to get him to stop making a mess with his stew. The corner of Allan's mouth turned up at her scolding.

"It means there's still a long way to go yet," he clarified. "There are still plenty more to worry about 'n all."

The two of them nodded slowly. Will understood it—at least he thought he did. It was only _one_ of the major adversaries that was out of the war. There were still _plenty_ of other players to worry about. But he still allowed himself to feel a little optimistic about it.

Just a little bit.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I fucked up. (Yes, I do that sometimes. Astonishing, I know!) I read through a timeline of World War II, and somehow came to the conclusion that Italy surrendered in November of 1943. It turns out that that happened in _September._ I was very, very angry with myself for making that mistake and had to change parts of the rest of the story around a bit. Because of this, I've had no choice but to plan to add in a chapter to fill in a big time gap that wasn't there before. Gah! I'm slowly going mad!

In the meantime, please read and enjoy. And do review if you feel so inclined.


	16. February, 1944

I hate to say this now, but I might or might not be able to update next Friday. I've fallen behind on my writing being at work, and I'm sick again. I will try as hard as I can to stay on top of things, but if I can't get an update in, don't be surprised. I apologize if this happens. Trust me, I'm not happy about it either!

I want to take the time here to thank everybody who's been reading and offering feedback so far. I never expected this story to be as popular as it's become, and I'm so grateful to every one of you. I mean it—thank you so much for your support!

Disclaimer: The BBC owns the characters of this particular version of Robin Hood. I am proud to say that I own the plot.

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o…o

**February, 1944**

The gaggle of chattering, laughing, squealing women had practically set her teeth on edge all afternoon. Djaq agreed to help Marian with the wedding preparations and planning, but if she knew about the friends that would _also_ be helping, and their habit of squealing with laughter and talking of everything to do with weddings down to the tiniest detail, she might not have come. They weren't bad people, she admitted to herself—they were nice enough, but they were just… _girly._ Too girly for her tastes, and, she imagined, for Marian as well, who was about as un-frilly a woman as they came.

Marian had even asked her to be a bridesmaid. This surprised her, but she couldn't very well say no. She'd agreed to it, not realizing that this meant she was to be more or less _conscripted_ by the woman's friends to helping with the plans.

She felt _utterly_ lost in wedding planning. Colours and fabrics, flowers, decorations, food, guests—it all zoomed over her head in a dizzying blur of completely foreign terms. She helped Marian because she loved her like a sister, but she couldn't help but think that being there was pretty useless. After all, what could she be aside from somebody who needed explanations for everything and often voiced out loud her wonder why certain things were "completely necessary" when they could probably have been done without.

Come to think of it—that might well have been _why_ Marian had her around. As a voice of reason. Possibly.

She could handle the group in small doses, but she'd had quite enough of them for one afternoon, so much so that she declined a ride home in favour of walking nearly two miles under threateningly heavy, grey skies.

"I'm sorry," Marian whispered to her as she left the house, pulling her long, wide shawl up over her head. "I know they can be a little overwhelming—maybe next time, I'll just have you over for an afternoon. I could use some help without segueing into somebody _else's_ fantasy wedding."

Djaq smiled at her friend and thanked her, but was, all in all, happy to leave and head back home.

Fifteen minutes into her walk, though, the sleet began to fall, stinging every bit of flesh left uncovered by her coat, scarf, and gloves.

But even _this_ was better than being crammed into the back seat of a car with women who insisted on talking about flower arrangements, dress styles, hypothetical wedding plans, and future names for children. How women could decide so quickly on names for children that didn't exist and planned weddings to grooms they hadn't even _met_ yet was absolutely beyond her. She'd never given much thought to such things herself; this could probably be attributed to the fact that she just didn't have those girlish fantasies as other women did. At a time in life when many women began daydreaming of fantasy weddings to fantasy grooms, _she_ was watching her brother die and trying to scrape out survival on the streets of London.

That, and she simply wasn't girlish to begin with.

She tucked her hands into her pockets and lowered her head against the sleet as she walked, absorbed in thought.

All of this talk of weddings and marriage, as much as she found it _bewildering,_ had awoken something in her. She didn't much fancy the idea of a big wedding, or a fancy dress, or dancing swans, or imported flowers from the Himalayas, and whatever else it was that made women go absolutely bonkers. But getting _married…_

The idea hadn't occurred to her much; she hadn't thought it would have been an option for her in the past, what with one thing and another. But as her life changed so too did her expectations for it—and now, so many years later, it actually seemed appealing.

Appealing as an idea for something to do in the future, anyway.

She wasn't completely sure if she was ready for that now. She was still a teenager, after all. Legally, she was old enough to marry, but perhaps she wasn't old enough or mature enough to commit to a lifelong promise like that. Part of her, the part that still feared the unknown and unfamiliar, and the part of her that instinctively fought constraints of any kind, balked at the idea of something so permanent. But the rest of her went into a flurry of excited jitters at the thought.

Maybe spending all afternoon around those women was starting to rub off on her and was making her a bit broody. Or maybe it wasn't. That she was completely in love with Will was something for which there was no room for debate, but were _either_ of them ready for marriage? She honestly had no idea.

Another thing that worried her, among the things brought up by the other women over the course of the afternoon, was the excessive talk of children. She had no doubt in her mind that Marian and Robin would have them—and be excellent parents—but that wasn't what troubled her. What bothered her was Will. Talk of babies and children between the two of them was limited to _other people's_ children, and they never talked of the possibility of having their own. She knew Will liked them, as well—though not at all ages. He'd played with little John Little and baby Amelia, now nearly two, and handfuls of other neighbourhood youths. He used his gift for woodwork to make beautiful toys and figurines for the local children, selling his creations to the toy shop for a small fraction of the price they were undoubtedly worth, and giving them away to the children of families he knew for birthdays and holidays, just to see them smile. She didn't know for certain, but she could only guess that someday he might want children—not anytime soon, of course. They were still far too young for that, still growing up into the adults they would one day be, and unmarried, which would not bode well for the future of any hypothetical child.

But still. Wouldn't he want them? In future?

At first her secret didn't bother her. They were both so young, and she didn't think there was any plausible way of bringing up the subject without sounding pressuring or oddly challenging. So she didn't—after all, back then he hadn't seen her naked yet and didn't know about the scar, and she always assumed that she'd tell him when the time came. And then they'd become intimate, and there was simply no way of hiding it anymore. She recalled the concern in his face that first time, quelling his own desire in order to ask her, gently and a little apprehensively, what had happened to her. Then she had been so touched, her jittery nerves pushed aside by his obvious concern for her—but she couldn't tell him about it. She should have, but she couldn't bring herself to form the words. Not then. She tried to dismiss it and promise to tell him another time, so she wouldn't have to lie or embarrass herself, but he wouldn't have that. So she lied, told him that it was an unusually bad appendix scar—with the intent to tell him the truth as soon as possible.

And, of course, she never had. She put it off again and again, stalling and making half-hearted promises to herself to tell him.

More and more lately it weighed on her heavily. After keeping up the lie for so long, she didn't know how he would react if she suddenly sprang the truth on him. Undoubtedly, he'd wonder why she hadn't told him sooner, to which she had no satisfactory answer.

But after today, she realized how unfair it would be to him if she knowingly kept this to herself. After all, it wasn't as if this was _natural,_ something she would otherwise have no knowledge of. She knew perfectly well what it was all about, and it wouldn't be fair to him if she continued to deceive him.

It wouldn't be right.

She would have to tell him, and she knew it.

There was no reason to suspect it might be enough to make him want to leave her—at least she didn't _think_ that was the case. What Will Scarlett took badly to was lying. _That_ was what scared her. She wouldn't blame him in the least if he was cross when he found out. She expected it.

The thought weighed heavily on her mind, a gigantic storm cloud over her head as she walked into the familiar row of houses off the main road. Her legs knew this route by instinct by now, letting her mind wander. She had no idea how she would tell him; the best idea might well have been just to blurt it out.

Thinking on it, she wondered if he didn't already suspect something. He wasn't _stupid;_ quite the opposite. She'd been sleeping with him since she was seventeen with absolutely no regards as to time or her cycle, and it hadn't happened; he would be an idiot not to notice it, and she knew he was smart enough to put two and two together and to work out that something wasn't quite _normal_ in that. If that was the case, she wondered why he hadn't said anything about it to her. Was he too polite? Too shy? Did he, like her, not know how to bring it up?

She had no idea.

All she could do now was simply to tell him the truth, and hope for the best.

By the time she reached the front door, the front walk was almost completely iced over from the sleet. She watched her footing carefully, grabbing onto the bare branches of the trees overhanging the path to steady herself when she slipped a few times.

Then she quickly jumped the two steps to the door, but there she stopped, staring at the faded green paint, noting the chipping at the bottom and where it was worn away around the tarnished doorknob and letterbox, as if the whole thing was completely new and alien to her. Her chest felt unusually tight with anxiety and fear as she took a deep breath and forced the door open.

Silence awaited her on the other side.

She already knew that Allan was out of town and wouldn't be home. He spent a long time working a series of attempted jobs that lasted only a few weeks at a stretch, and in between jobs babysitting Amelia Little while her mother was at work. For a while she and Will joked that he should just give up the job search and offer himself as a nanny—and he very nearly thought of doing just that. Then he'd finally found a job he enjoyed and that he was surprisingly good at with, of all things, the _local newspaper_ as one of their photographers.

The idea of _Allan_ working with a newspaper didn't quite compute at first. He wasn't exceptionally good with words or writing, or even particularly talented with a camera—but he was good at talking to people and very charismatic, so perhaps a job with the press wasn't entirely out of the realm of the conceivable. This weekend, the paper had sent him with the local sport reporter to cover the upper school's football team as they played a major game against a team in Leeds.

So she knew where her friend was.

But where was Will?

"Will?" She called experimentally, peeking around to the sitting room to see if he wasn't napping on the sofa, peeking out back into the shop next door, and checking upstairs to see if he was asleep _there._

Nothing.

Why did he have to be out _now?_ Her stomach prickled with nerves that only intensified as the minutes went by. She plodded back down the stairs, peeling off her gloves and stuffing them in her coat pockets, and hanging her coat and shawl up on the pegs in the front hall. She wandered aimlessly into the kitchen, not really knowing why she was going in there to begin with, and noticed a piece of paper partially trapped underneath the teapot so as not to flutter onto the floor. It was a note.

"_Gone to see Dad. I should be back around half-past four."_

Djaq knew what that meant—it meant he was at the cemetery, visiting Dan's grave. He did that every so often, going there to think over problems, as if his father was there to offer advice and help him. Absently, she wondered what it was that he was worried about that he'd go to the cemetery to think over. She hoped it wasn't anything serious.

She looked at the clock and sighed sadly. Still fifteen minutes until he was supposed to be home. It would be a very _long_ fifteen minutes. Concentrating on anything was impossible—she couldn't keep her mind on a newspaper, or a crossword, or the radio, or any books. After a few minutes, she resigned herself to perching on the stairs like a gargoyle, facing the front door, and waiting for him to come back.

The minutes ticked by _achingly_ slow. It seemed like the seconds were lengthening, the ticks of the clock coming slower and slower.

It was _phenomenally_ unfair.

As the time passed, her nervousness compounded. Imagining the impending scenario in her head, she kept coming up with frightening outcomes. That he would be angry that she kept this from him for so long was a given; what he did about that was the unknown territory. She was _terrified_ that he might… might… open the door and tell her to leave. The rational part of her mind knew that that wasn't even _vaguely_ likely, but the emotional part of her feared that kind of reaction.

_Tick._

_Tock._

_Tick._

_Tock._

If there she had ever been in a more daunting situation, she couldn't recall it.

When the door before her _finally_ opened, she was so caught up in her own thoughts that it actually startled her. She jumped, sliding down two stairs before catching and steadying herself.

Will appeared, closing the door immediately behind him and brushing bits of sleet out of his hair.

"It's _freezing_ out there," he murmured as he hung his things up.

When he turned and noticed her sitting on the stairs with her face in her hands, he frowned.

"Oh no—what's wrong?" He asked softly, standing close to her and reaching out with a gentle hand to stroke her hair. "You only ever sit here and wait for me like that when something serious has happened."

Did she really _have_ to tell him about this? After all, it would be possible for her to keep it to herself, and to pretend later at a more relevant time that her "infertility" was a shock, something that she had no idea about.

No. That would be cruel—and even if Will _didn't_ figure it out for himself, _she_ would always know. Know that she was deceiving him. Now she was just looking for a way to balk and get out of this—she had to tell him, and she knew it.

She swallowed hard.

"What did you want to talk to your father about?" She asked, stalling, knowing her voice was shaking and her hands were trembling before her.

"Nothing—I wanted to ask him about something."

Pause.

"But that's not what's bothering you."

Of course.

"I have something I need to tell you," she forced herself to say. "It is… important."

He nodded, sitting down next to her, a few steps below her so that he would be at eye level. He said nothing, allowing her to steel herself before continuing.

Her heart was pounding in her ears, so loudly that she could barely hear the next words that came out of her own mouth.

"My scar," she croaked, gingerly touching the spot through her shirt.

"Your appendix?" He asked. She shook her head.

"It is not my appendix. I still have my appendix."

Silence.

"Just before my uncle sent us—my brother and me—here to England…" deep breath. She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could go on. "There was always a lot of conflict," she explained. "Sometimes it was violent. Fights could erupt anywhere, at any time. It was _dangerous."_

Will nodded slowly, the worry apparent in his light eyes. He chewed his lower lip but remained quiet as he waited for her to go on.

"One day we were playing in the street. Something happened—I don't remember what, now. I do not think I even knew what happened _then._ A gunfight broke out."

She closed her eyes and pressed her hand against her abdomen like she could will the offending mark away and not have to deal with this. But she was so close now—she couldn't back out.

"You were hurt," he finished for her, his voice barely above a whisper.

Nod.

"Is that what the scar is?"

"No," she rasped. Frowning, she cleared her throat and spoke again. "Gunshot wounds are much smaller than this. Bassam took me to hospital right away. But the surgeon was… _incompetent._ He did more damage trying to remove the bullet than the thing did going in."

"Djaq—"

"There is more," she told him, interrupting him and talking quickly so as to get this part out of the way as fast as she could. This was the part she'd dreaded. "I have been to other doctors since then. Several. They have all said the same thing—that I will never be able to bear children."

Pause.

That was the most stressful, intense silence Djaq had ever experienced in her nineteen-and-a-half years of life. She couldn't tell what he was thinking as he stared at her. His eyes and face betrayed nothing. The silence was heavy and uncomfortable and frightening.

Over and over again in her head, she heard his voice saying the things she most feared. _"Then I want nothing more to do with you." "Get out." "You can't even do what nature made you to do." "I can't love you."_

She shivered.

"Will?"

Nothing.

The tears were close now, brimming in her eyes and making the world look blurry and watery. "Say something. Please," she begged.

His unreadable facial expression slowly melted into a worried frown.

"Why didn't you tell me this sooner?" He asked, his voice even and calm.

"I'd wanted to tell you sooner," she said quickly, trying to explain herself. "I wanted to tell you, but I could never find the right time. I could never think of how to tell you, what to say. I kept hoping that I could _think_ of something. And the longer I waited, the harder it was to think about it. I was—I was so afraid."

"What of?"

"That you might not…"

"What—that it might change how I felt?"

She could tell by the way he spoke that he meant this question as a far-fetched and wild guess, but that was _exactly_ what frightened her. Her hands fisted in her lap, her blunt fingernails digging into the palms of her hands, leaving deep gouges.

"Yes," she whispered. She looked down, refusing to make eye contact with him

His hand came up to rest against the side of her face, calloused and coarse and so very gentle on her cheek, and her trembling subsided.

"Look at me," he said softly.

At first she couldn't bring herself to look up. She felt ashamed of herself for letting this fear compound for years, angry at herself for allowing this lie to go on for so long and for lying to him for years. She slowly pulled her head up and looked him in the eyes. His gaze was sweet and soft and gentle.

"Djaq, I love you. More than anything. I don't care about this. It doesn't matter to me. It never has. I love _you."_

"You never…?"

"I'm a little naïve," he smiled, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "But I like to think I'm not completely stupid."

"Will…"

So he _had_ figured it out. She thought he might.

"Why did you not say anything?" She asked. "You had to wonder, didn't you?"

"I wondered, yes. But I didn't know how to start it. It would probably have sounded more than a little odd if I asked you why you weren't pregnant yet. That's _terribly_ private business. I just… I didn't want to upset you. I thought you would tell me when you were ready."

Djaq sighed in relief. She wasn't sure if she actually _expected_ all of her terrible thoughts to come true, but his calm demeanour and gently accepting responses was the best outcome she could possibly have hoped for. Except that there was still more, wasn't there? Couples who couldn't have their _own_ children adopted them. Would he want…?

There was that tension again, squeezing her chest like a vice.

"There's more?" He asked.

Sometimes it was frightening that he knew her so well that he could tell what was going on in her head just by looking at her.

"I don't…" she stopped and swallowed, trying to moisten her paper-dry throat. "I do not think that I would have children even if I _could._ I do not want them—I don't even _like_ them." She sniffled, turning away from the warm hand against her face to wipe her suddenly teary eyes on her sleeve.

"I still don't care," he assured her. "You mean more to me than anything—certainly more than some non-existent, hypothetical offspring."

Snuffle, nod.

He smiled and put his arm around her shoulders. "Come here," he said, pulling her closer and settling her into his lap, balancing them both on the carpeted steps. He kissed the top of her head and let his lips linger against her hair, murmuring quietly. "Hush that—don't cry."

Another sniffle. She didn't quite trust herself to talk yet, so she just sat there with her arms wrapped around him and her face buried in his chest; the steady rhythmic sounds of his heartbeat and his breathing were soothing.

"How awful does that make me?" She sniffled, the sound of her voice muffled against Will's chest. "Women are supposed to _love_ children. It should be born into me—maternal instinct. Not only can I not have them, but it does not even upset me that I can't!"

"That doesn't make you 'awful'," he told her sternly. "Quite the opposite, if you think about it. It means you're smart enough and that you know yourself well enough to know that this isn't for you." He threaded his fingers through her hair. "I think that takes real courage."

It made her smile into his shirt to hear him say that. With the secret now revealed, she was suddenly aware of exactly how much it weighed on her mind for the last few years. The relief was almost dizzying. She was so happy at how this had turned out—it couldn't possibly have gone any better than this. It almost made her forget the fear that plagued her only minutes before, made her wonder why she hadn't told him sooner. She rubbed her face against him like an affectionate cat. She began sobbing quietly against him, her shoulders quaking. She didn't even know why. Instead of telling her not to cry he hugged her tightly, let her have her tears.

"I am sorry—I should have said earlier. It was not fair to keep it from you."

"Seems it was harder on you."

Nod.

"And stop apologizing—it isn't your fault. What's done is done, and I'm not angry with you."

She sat back now, her cheeks wet with tears and wiping her face dry with her other shirt sleeve. "I know."

"You shouldn't keep things like that to yourself—you can trust me, you know that, right?"

"Yes. I am—"

"Don't say you're sorry!"

She gave a shaky smile and bit her lower lip.

He kissed her forehead. "No more secrets?" He asked.

"No more secrets."

"Good," he said with a nod, satisfied with her answer. Then he stood up, taking her with him in his arms. Djaq yipped and fastened her arms around his neck, not expecting that.

"You can put me down now," she said.

"I _can,_ yes," he said. "But I don't want to."

She giggled. She felt wonderfully giddy and light-headed and relieved. Will Scarlett loved her, all of her, as she was.

Suddenly, the idea of marrying this man didn't seem so far-fetched.

Someday, perhaps.

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This chapter deviated completely from the plans I made for it in the outline, but it turned out for the better this way. It became basically an insecure!Djaq chapter, because she's not always tough-as-nails. I always think it's a good idea to show a more vulnerable and human side of characters—it makes them seem so much more relatable. And also, there had to be an explanation for this mysterious scar Djaq has. (I planned that bit, for the record.) This was also a disappointingly short chapter, but the next one will make up for it. Actually, the next one will probably be one of those chapters that's so long I have to split it.

As always, feedback is appreciated and encouraged, but not demanded. But you guys know that by now.


	17. May, 1944

ANOTHER MONSTER CHAPTER ALERT! The scary part is that I _did_ split this chapter into two, and _this is a half._ I really need to stop these run-on chapters…

I'm really cutting it pretty fine at the moment as far as chapters go—real life seems determined to kick my ass, and it's succeeding. I'm getting behind in my writing these days, and this is my last completed chapter (I've been posting chapters that have been written for a while, I'm not writing as I go), so I can't promise that I'll have an update for you next week. I've just lost track of time and haven't been writing like a good little fanauthor. I'm really sorry!

Disclaimer: Seventeen chapters later, still not any closer to owning Robin Hood. Darn it.

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**May, 1944**

The wedding was tomorrow. It had been a bit of a surprise to everybody that the wedding had been planned so quickly, in only a few months, when many women spent a year or more planning theirs. There was a sneaking suspicion, and a running joke, among some of the people in Nottingham that Marian had actually had the whole thing planned out years ago, and was just waiting for Robin to propose so she could set the plans in motion.

Djaq knew better than that, though. After several _incredibly_ unsuccessful afternoons with the four other members of the bridal party, Marian stopped meeting with all of the bridesmaids at once in an attempt to actually _plan_ the wedding and instead met with just Djaq and one of the other women, an old friend of Marian's, who was already married and thus had no pesky "my own fairytale wedding" fantasies getting in the way of helping. After that, the planning went quite quickly and easily. It wouldn't be a particularly grand, showy wedding, because neither Marian nor Robin fancied such a superfluous show of wealth; Marian wasn't a particularly "frilly" person, either. Simple was always the way she preferred things.

All of the wedding planning, though, had made Djaq's head spin. For the life of her she couldn't _imagine_ why people willingly put themselves through this sort of ulcer-inducing stress when two people could be just as legally married by taking an afternoon at the Registry Office and paying the £5 for the marriage license.

Oddly, the hardest part of the planning was that neither Robin nor Marian wanted gifts, which was written in bold red ink on all of the invitations, and yet a few people were _still_ telephoning or writing to ask what it was all about. Any gifts that were brought despite all of this, Robin had said, would be donated. Both the bride and bridegroom were well-off from their parent's estates, both owned houses, and neither needed or wanted anything—so the traditional types of wedding gifts for a couple to start their life together were redundant.

Everything was ready, the preparations were made.

All that was left to do was get everything in order for the morning. It was much easier in theory than in practice.

"Everybody knows where their clothes are?"

"Yes, Djaq."

"Yep!"

"Sure do."

Will, Luke, and Allan answered her question in that order as they helped clean up the kitchen after dinner that evening. The tiny kitchen was remarkably crowded for all that there were just the four of them in here; somehow it seemed much bigger when it was just her and Will living in the house. She stood over the table and dusted crumbs from the tablecloth with a stiff piece of card, knocking them into the dustbin at the edge of the table and continued talking.

"I have to be out of the house earlier than you do tomorrow," she reminded them. "Against my better judgment, I _am_ trusting the three of you to be clean and dressed and at the church before ten."

"We know, Djaq!" Allan exclaimed, stacking plates in the cupboard. "You've told us all of this already!"

"I know, I know—I am sorry."

"Normally it's _brides_ who're supposed to be the ones going into a tizzy," he teased.

"That is because brides don't have three ridiculous little boys to look out for like _I _have," she retorted. "I am beginning to think it might be best if I just go back to my original plan and have all of you come early along with me—it saves _me_ the trouble of wondering if you will remember everything, if you will turn up on time. If you turn up at _all."_

"We aren't _that_ bad!" Luke protested defensively.

"Yeah, really—you realize we're just talking about getting dressed up and going to a wedding, right?" Allan said. "Not circumnavigating the globe. Believe it or not, we're not _completely_ useless. I _can_ remember what needs to be done and then do it."

"I rather doubt that," she snorted.

"Djaq, I'm twenty-one years old. I think I'll manage to remember everything."

"Allan," she said in as sweet a tone as she could muster.

He immediately looked suspicious. "Uh, yes?"

"What did you have for breakfast today?" Her voice was still that syrupy-sweet singsong tone.

His face went blank and there was a silence.

"I rest my case."

Will was laugh-snorting into the cabinet with the plates.

"Oh, come on, Djaq!" Luke said, his voice cracking humorously as he spoke.

She turned towards the teenaged boy with her hands planted on her hips and a stern look on his face and he immediately quieted timidly.

Looking at him, for the first time she realized that, at fifteen, he was the same age now that Will had been when she met him all those years ago. There was something oddly nostalgic about that realization; she could look into his face and see the ghost of a young Will Scarlett in his features. Luke was looking more and more frighteningly like his brother. He _acted_ so much like him as well—they had so many of the same mannerisms and funny habits. Both of them were often painfully shy, and both were soft-spoken and very quiet when talking with somebody they didn't know terribly well; Will always put a hand through his hair when he was nervous or thinking, and for Luke the nervous habit was absently tugging his earlobe. They had the same shy smile, the same nervous laugh; both had a talent for art, though it was looking more and more like the younger Scarlett boy was more proficient in sketch art than in woodwork.

They even _sounded_ alike, so much so that when he was visiting, people constantly confused the two of them on the telephone; even Djaq herself and Auntie Annie had made the mistake before. It got to the point where most people would begin a telephone conversation not with a greeting but by asking, "Is this Luke or Will?" just to cut down on the confusion.

"We're really not as bad as you make out," the boy was saying.

"Alone, maybe not," she said. "But together you just feed off of one another. And fight. And get a bit silly. One minute you will all be looking for suit jackets, and the next you'll be rolling on the floor breaking your knuckles on each other's faces."

"It's not like _you_ don't do your fair share of fighting with us," Allan pointed out.

"Not before a friend's wedding," she protested. "I don't know—perhaps it _is_ better if you come with me. I can never be sure if I can trust _any _of the three of you to do _anything_ properly."

Will looked over at her with a cheeky grin and closed the dish cabinet. He came up behind her, put an arm around her shoulders, and leaned in close to her ear. "That's not what you were saying last night," he whispered. Djaq gasped and covered her mouth, her face burning.

"You be quiet!" She commanded, her cheeks fizzling in embarrassment, even though she wasn't sure that Allan or Luke could hear what he'd said.

"Whatever you say," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "To be honest, I think it's probably a good idea if we go early. It's just an hour, and I'd rather be early than a bit late."

"An _hour?" _Allan asked with raised eyebrows. "What are we gonna do, sit in the back seat of somebody's car in the car park with the window cracked like a bunch of dogs?"

"I am sure the vicar will let you sit in the church—I will tell him you are all house-trained," Djaq quipped with a cheerful smile.

"We're not winning this, are we?" Luke asked with a sigh, sitting down with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

"No."

He sighed again, turning around and leaving the kitchen while grousing, "And I thought being out of Auntie Annie's house would mean I'd _win_ an argument every once in a while. I'm going to bed!"

"Don't be up too late reading comic books under the blankets with a torch!" Will called up after him. "We're leaving at nine whether you're dressed or not!"

He poked his dark head back into the kitchen doorway. "I'm not sure Marian would like it if I turned up at the wedding in my pajamas with spectacular bed-hair."

Will turned his brother around by the shoulders and gave him a push. "Get out of here!" He growled affectionately, rumpling the boy's hair just before he dashed from the room. They could hear his carelessly heavy footfalls thudding through the house as he ran through the sitting room, up the stairs, and finally on the second floor over their heads to his bedroom, where the door closed.

"Do we _really_ have to leave early tomorrow?" Allan whinged.

"Yes!" Both Will and Djaq said at the same time.

He winced.

The three of them finished the kitchen cleanup, washing the last of the pots and pans and putting freshly dried cups and plates away. When everything was finished and the kitchen was clean, Will and Djaq headed around towards the stairs. Allan plopped down in the ancient, faded, overstuffed chair near the radio; he kept the volume low, barely audible, and leaned close to it to be able to hear while he fiddled with the frequency dials, looking for a particular station.

"Don't mind me," he said, waving the couple off.

"What are you hoping to find?" Djaq asked.

Pause.

"Allan?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Oh, god—not _Germany Calling_ again," Will groaned. He hung his head in response. "Why do you _like_ that programme?"

The blue-eyed man shrugged, going back to the dials. "I dunno—it's funny. Not intentionally, but it's funny. I keep wondering how they expect to turn Britain with a radio broadcast. They've been doing it for nearly five years and it hasn't worked yet." He paused and shrugged again. "And I defy anybody to say the name 'Lord Haw-Haw' without cracking a smile."

Will had to bite his lip to keep from grinning—it really _was_ a ridiculous name.

She gave her friend a stern look and crossed her arms over her chest. "Lord Haw-Haw," she said, her face completely deadpanned. "Goodnight."

Both men watched her leave the room.

"She deadpanned Lord Haw-Haw," Allan said in surprise, punctuating this observation with a snort. "That woman has supernatural powers, I swear."

"Remember, you heard it here first," he said. "'Night, Allan."

Will closed the door between the sitting room and the front hall, preparing to go upstairs to bed, and saw Djaq leaning on the wall, her head pillowed on her crossed arms, quietly giggling.

"So much for supernatural powers," he commented.

"I can't help it," she giggled softly. "It is inherently funny. Like 'weasel' or 'consternation'."

He covered his mouth with his hand.

She righted herself, her giggles subsiding into a broad, heart-melting smile. "Come," she told him, standing a few steps up and tugging on his hand. "We should get some rest—tomorrow will be a busy day."

He followed her obediently; on the way past the smaller guest bedroom where Luke was staying, he stopped and pounded on the door. "Not too late!" He called.

From the other side of the door there came a loud raspberry.

She let out a quiet laugh from the doorway to their bedroom. "How mature."

"Yes, very nice, that," he said as he ushered her into the room.

The pair settled into bed together, her back pressed into his front. The last things Djaq remembered before she fell asleep were Will's heavy arm across her chest while she clutched it like a teddy bear and the sound of his breath over her head.

o…o

The next morning, the day of the wedding, dawned cool and a little damp, but the early-morning clouds cleared quickly and revealed the rarest of clear blue skies. It seemed like even whoever was in charge of English weather knew that the twentieth of May was going to be a special day and made sure that the weather actually behaved. The gentlest of breezes stirred the trees outside, the sun shone brightly, and the air was warm without being too hot to be comfortable; there was green growth everywhere, in the trees and gardens, all of it dotted with the colourful flowerbuds of late spring.

Marian and Robin's wedding day was set to be a beautiful one. Everything was wonderful and serene.

Except in the Scarlett house, where nerves were slowly starting to fizzle.

"You see, _this_ is why I worried about the three of you getting out of the house on time!" Djaq scolded them all at once while she climbed over Allan, not caring about propriety and wearing only her slip, as the man knelt in the front hall brushing a smudge off of his newly polished dress shoes.

They weren't running late, but they were cutting it _awfully_ fine. Part of it was her fault—she woke up at a quarter to seven, fifteen minutes before she was supposed to, and figured it wouldn't hurt to close her eyes for a few more minutes. After all, being nice and warm and comfortable under the blankets with Will, it was difficult to motivate out of bed. She didn't wake up again for another forty-five minutes, kicking herself into High Panic Mode and wondering why she hadn't set the alarm. And because _she_ wasn't around to wake the rest of them up, _nobody_ was awake on time.

It was infuriating.

"You could've asked me to _move,"_ Allan said as he watched her walk away. "You know, instead of jumping over my head like a horse on a fox hunt."

"Yes, well, I am panicking—being polite just gets in the way."

He didn't bother arguing with this. "Anybody seen my tie?"

"It's hanging off the bathroom doorknob, with the rest of 'em!" Will called from upstairs.

"Thanks!"

"You'll have to wait until my _little brother—"_ from downstairs, she could hear as he punctuated the two words with three loud knocks on a door. "Is finished doing whatever it is he's doing in there."

A muffled shout came back, "I'll be done in a minute!"

"You'd better be careful with that pomade, kid," Allan yelled. "A little of that stuff goes a long way. Too much and you look like you haven't had a shower in about six months."

"Not to mention the _smell,"_ Will grumbled. "It's enough to clear your sinuses."

"Or that it can have the natural look and feel of industrial gear lubricant."

If she hadn't been so desperate to get dressed and get to the church on time, she might have stopped to laugh at this exchange; as it was, it only passed on the fringes of her awareness as she pulled her dress on over her head and used the back of a pan as a mirror to check herself. The dress was the same pale pink satiny one that Marian had given her so many years ago; it needed to be let out in a few places to accommodate a few years of womanly growth, but it was still the best dress she had for the occasion. At least she didn't have to worry about makeup—_somebody_ would help her with that when she got to the church, which was good because she had absolutely no idea how to apply makeup.

She nudged her newly replaced trusty red Converse, sitting by the back door. The church was only a fifteen-minute walk away from the house, but she didn't like the idea of going the whole way in her dress shoes—they were uncomfortable and she was still a little unsure of herself and wobbly on the high heels, which weren't even very high at all. Even when she walked to the bus for work in the morning, she wore her trainers and carried her shoes with her. Today she couldn't do that—she had nowhere to put them and she was afraid she might lose them amidst all the activity.

What else had to be done? Will was the only one, as far as she knew, who was fully dressed and ready to go. Allan needed his tie and Luke was in the bathroom doing goodness knows what with half a tin of hair pomade. She was going to have to find somebody to draw on her seams, since it was plenty warm outside and she didn't fancy wearing her only pair of stockings…

A hand settled onto her shoulder, squeezing gently, bringing her back down to solid ground as her head was whirling.

Will was standing close behind her, his chest against her back. "Are you all right?" The question was low, and she could feel the vibration through her back.

"Just losing my mind," she squeaked. "I have a newfound respect for Annie for how she manages to do _everything_ without sustaining brain damage."

"You're worrying too much."

Sigh. Of course she was worrying. Except for once, when she was only about six or seven, she hadn't been to any weddings. It had been the wedding of some distant eighth cousin or something like that, and then it had been a Muslim wedding. She vaguely remembered the bride's ceremonial caftan and head scarf, undyed linen and embroidered heavily with red-violet silk; the woman's hands were artfully painted, and she carried her dowry with her as many, many pieces of silver jewellery. The only thing that _really_ stuck with her about that wedding was the fact that she wasn't allowed to go with her brother and her father to the wedding reception; men and women were segregated, and she was sent to the women's reception with an aunt, who didn't understand why the young girl was so upset.

And then the bridegroom had been injured falling off of a chair hoisted over the heads of wedding guests and the couple spent their wedding night in hospital.

"I have never been to an English wedding before," she said as a way of explaining herself. "And Marian is a good friend of mine."

"Everything'll be fine," he assured her quietly.

Another sigh. "I know. I know it is unlike me to worry so much, but I just cannot help it."

He turned her around by the shoulders so she faced him; she looked up into his smiling face and smiled a little bit herself. He toyed with a lock of her hair, still damp from her shower.

"You look beautiful," he murmured.

"Thank you," she sighed. "You look quite dashing as well."

Even though she loved him best in his work clothes, natural and relaxed and rumpled and dirty with sawdust in his hair, she liked seeing him in the suit every once in a while. He wore his gray suit with a plain white shirt and a green tie. He looked so very handsome in his 'grown man' clothes.

He stroked her cheek comfortingly. He could tell she was slowly going crazy.

"Since you're ready—would you draw my seams on for me, please?"

One side of his mouth curled up in a grin, pulling up one of the kitchen chairs. "I thought you'd never ask."

Djaq stood up on the chair and turned her back to him, hiking her skirts up so that Will could draw the line on her leg with the kohl pencil that she handed to him. He rubbed his hands together to warm them first before he began.

"You'd better not move this time—Marian will be _very_ upset if you come to her wedding with crooked seams," he teased.

"I have gotten much better with this, you know!" She protested. "I don't walk off the chair anymore."

"True," he conceded, swiftly drawing a dark line up the back of her left leg. He moved his other hand slowly up the leg, raising goosebumps all over her body.

She turned over her shoulder and looked down to him. "Behave yourself," she whispered.

"Have I interrupted some sort of deviant sex game in here?" Allan's teasing voice game from the kitchen doorway.

"In about ten minutes you would have," Will shot back.

"D'you want me to let you two in peace for a few minutes?"

"Stop that!" Djaq ordered from her position on top of the chair.

"Who?" Will asked innocently. "Me, or the idiot wearing two ties at the same time?"

"He _what?"_ She did a double-take and looked at her friend. He did indeed have two ties on; the first was in proper position beneath the collar of his starched blue shirt, but the other was around his neck and he was fiddling with it. "I must say, Allan, this is indecisiveness taken to a new level."

"Oh, be quiet," he snorted. "This one isn't mine, it belongs to Mini Will. Why doesn't that boy know how to properly do a tie yet?"

"Because his school uniform doesn't require one," Will replied. "And I know this might sort of be the obvious question, but why didn't you just tie it on him?"

Allan turned pink. "I, uh, I can't do a tie on another person. I can only do it on myself." As if to prove his point, he loosened the second tie and pulled it over his head. "All he has to do now is just slip this on—where'd he go anyway?"

"I'm back here!" Luke called, coming into the kitchen through the other door from the dining room. Djaq had to _bite_ her tongue to keep from laughing at him. His hair was shiny, oiled, and lay flat on his head, combed to the side in a style that, she imagined, he must have thought made him look incredibly handsome. She looked down at Will with her eyebrows raised—he was staring at his little brother with an open-mouthed stare.

"Christ, I told you to be careful with that stuff!" Allan laughed. "Did you suddenly decide to join the Air Force or something?"

"Huh?" Luke asked, grabbing his tie from Allan and pulling it on. "What's that have to do with the Air Force?"

"RAF pilots are well-known for drowning themselves in Brylcreem," he explained. "You look like you've got enough on you to supply the entire Air Force for six months."

He adjusted the tie. "So I look like a pilot?"

"Sure, you look like a pilot, kid."

"All right, I guess I can live with that."

"Do you realize how much washing it's gonna take to get that stuff _out?"_ Will asked. "You'll be in the shower until you're thirty!"

The younger boy rolled his eyes at his big brother's unease. "I'll be fine."

"Just don't lean on any furniture. Or… you know, _touch_ anything," he warned before going back to Djaq's leg. "And please tell me you remembered to put on braces."

"Aw, Will—"

"Go and get them." He pointed to the kitchen door with his free hand.

"They make my shorts ride up!"

"Better than having your trousers coming down around your ankles, in church, at a wedding."

"But—"

"Luke, stop arguing," Djaq scolded. "It is a special occasion. You can live with uncomfortable shorts for one day."

"Says the lady not wearing _stockings,"_ he snorted.

"That is different—it is a rationing thing, not a comfort issue. And going without stockings will not result in the chance of my underwear being exposed to a hundred and fifty people. Anyway, at least I am _pretending_ to wear them."

"Hey, Will—when you're done with those drawn-on seams, d'you think you could draw some braces on my shirt?"

"Braces—_now!"_ Both she and Will yelled at the same time as she stepped down from the kitchen chair.

"Come on!"

"All right, you don't _have_ to wear them," Will offered.

He looked relieved and smiled. "Really?"

"Yes. The alternative is that I go out to the wood shop and get the big staple gun, and then secure your trousers to your hips. Does that sound fair?"

"I give up. I just can't win," Luke grumbled, throwing up his arms in defeat and leaving the kitchen in a huff.

Allan howled with laughter, shaking his head.

"Have I mentioned recently how much I love living here?" He asked, grinning stupidly. "I mean, why go to the cinema when all I have to do to entertain myself is sit here and wait for something to happen?"

"Thanks, Allan," she said in that suspiciously sweet tone of voice. "It is nice that I can amuse the jester every once in a while."

"Of course!" He said as he left the kitchen.

"Aside from my little brother's braces, is everything else set to go?"

"I think so," she said. She chewed her lower lip nervously, a bad habit, as they made their way to the front door waiting for Luke to come downstairs so they could leave.

"Allan, lose the hat," Will ordered upon seeing his friend admiring himself in front of the hall mirror, tipping said hat at a jaunty angle on his head. "You look ridiculous."

He turned around, frowning, with a protective hand on the black felt trilby with a tag reading "PRESS" in block capitals stuck in the brim; slung over his left shoulder was a well-worn leather camera case.

"Oh, come on," he sighed. "Don't be boring."

"They know who you are, mate. You don't need to wear a press pass. It's bad enough you're bringing that camera with you."

"I _do_ work with the newspaper. They asked me to take some photos—it only makes sense that I should have my press pass with me."

"It's not a real press pass. It's a piece of card that you wrote on yourself with a felt-tip pen."

"Shush!"

Pause.

"You haven't brought flash powder, have you?" Will looked at him suspiciously, worriedly.

"Why?"

"No reason—I just have this recurring worry that you'll set somebody on fire if you use that stuff in the church. I'm fairly sure you can be excommunicated for that."

He reluctantly took the hat off and hung it up next to the door.

"Luke! Come on, get a move on!" Djaq called up the stairs.

"Coming!"

Allan nudged her. "Will you stop panicking?"

"I am not _panicking," _she told him sternly. "I'm justifiably nervous."

"What—you worried somebody else might catch the bouquet?"

She gave him That Look and he recoiled slightly. "It is just a tradition, not a guarantee."

Luke came bumbling gracelessly down the stairs, using a funny walk to exaggerate his discomfort.

"You're a lousy actor," Will told him, reaching out to rumple his hair before remembering the enormous quantity of Brylcreem in it and withdrawing his hand. He instead laid the hand on the fifteen-year-old's back and ushered him to the front door. "Let's get out of here."

They walked together up the road to the church, decorated outside with lengths of ivory and blue fabric draped in the windows and doorways. Bells were ringing in the tower, the deep rhythmic chiming reverberating all the way down to through the building and to the pavement below their feet.

Parked along the road just outside were a small handful of cars, from wedding party members who were already at the church and some guests who had decided to come _very_ early for some reason or another.

"It looks nice," Allan observed. "I see they scraped all the moss off the door for the occasion."

"Well, you know, it's the little touches that make everything so… special," Will said. "I'm sure they even cleaned the cobwebs out of the back pews where nobody ever sits."

He snorted. "I thought Robin was supposed to be here already—he's not gonna be late to his own wedding, is he?"

"He wouldn't _dare."_

"So, what are we supposed to do while we're waiting again?" Luke asked.

Djaq shrugged. "You could see if they need any help with anything if you want to be useful."

"I just want to be _not bored."_

"But not useful."

"Well, I am going inside—you _boys_ behave yourselves. Try not to be in the way. Or too loud. Or—"

"Just go!" Will said, turning her around by the shoulders and giving her a push towards the door of the church. "We'll be fine!"

She still wasn't completely convinced, but she went into the church anyway.

In one of the small, dark rooms off to the side of the building, Marian was dressed and standing before a mirror, surrounded by her giggling friends who were to serve in the bridal party; Alice Little was also there, fawning over the woman like a mother hen.

Marian looked beautiful. Her hair was curled and drawn back with a little silver hair comb, her veil pinned into it and falling down her back. The dress was simple—she hadn't expected anything else from Marian—a short ivory dress to the knee, a flared skirt and tiny thin straps instead of sleeves. She wore lacy gloves, and a string of pearls around her neck and one wrist. She looked positively giddy, her cheeks flushed pink and a smile on her face.

She was beautiful.

"Are you _sure_ you don't want John to walk you down the aisle?" Alice was asking, while looking the younger woman over for any hair that might be out of place or a wrinkle in her gown. "He said he'd be happy to do it."

"No thank you," Marian replied gently.

"I don't understand why you don't want to," one of the other girls said with a sigh as she arranged her own hair by another mirror. "I mean… your father isn't here to give you away, and John's sort of like everybody's uncle—"

"Because I don't want to be given away," she interrupted.

The blonde woman stopped primping and looked at her. "That doesn't make any sense."

"I never liked that tradition," Marian explained. "Or the bit where the vicar asks 'who so giveth this woman?' It's like I'm property changing hands."

"So who's going to answer the vicar? You?"

"Yes."

Silence.

"It was _my_ choice to get married. _I'm_ the one giving myself away."

The other girls present, with the exception of Alice and the one married bridesmaid, looked absolutely astounded at hearing those words come out of her mouth. It seemed like none of them had even thought about this possibility—but Djaq could imagine her friend doing nothing else. If it had been any other way, she might have actually been surprised.

"You're not surprised?" Somebody asked Beatrice, the married bridesmaid. The woman just shrugged.

"People do things differently. When I got married, my mother walked with me. I was always much closer to her."

Djaq carefully edged into the room, standing well back from the crowd of women and their ear-ringing squeals of happiness. Other girls always made her nervous and jumpy—she could manage them in small doses, but here in this room with the other bridesmaids and the surrounding visible estrogen fumes it was enough to make her want to back out of the room and go hide under the pews.

"Hello, Djaq," Marian said, looking at her through the mirror.

"You look lovely, Marian."

The woman smiled and looked down a bit in an uncharacteristically bashful gesture. She patted her gloved hands around her full skirt absently.

"Thank you."

"How are you feeling?"

"Surprisingly calm, all things considered."

"Really?"

"Well, I suppose I, along with everybody in Nottingham, have all been expecting this to happen for the last ten years. We've expended our collective nerves since then, so there aren't any left." She turned and looked directly at her over her shoulder and said with a smile, "You look quite pretty yourself, Djaq."

"Oh!" She felt her cheeks heat up. "I—thank you."

"Djaq always looks a picture," Alice said. "Come here, dear—I'll do your makeup for you."

Alice took her by the hand without giving her the chance to say anything in return, and took her over to a little stool in front of another mirror. There were far too many mirrors in this room, and the other women were admiring themselves in front of two or three at a time in order to see themselves from different angles.

The pair of them sat facing one another on stools while the older woman, with the patience of a saint, carefully applied the various cosmetics. No matter how many times she had to do this—and she _had_ worn makeup a handful of times since her sex was revealed all those years ago—Djaq never got used to sitting still while somebody drew on her face.

"Did you bring anything?" She asked.

"'Bring'?" Djaq repeated.

"Jewellery," she clarified.

Pause.

"No…"

Like meerkats who'd just heard something interesting, the bridesmaids briefly stopped what they were doing to stand alertly and look in her direction. 'No jewellery' must have been a foreign concept to them.

"Well, why on earth _not,_ dear? It's a special occasion! Or…" she trailed off and frowned. "Haven't you got any?" She looked suddenly worried, guilty, like she'd said something she shouldn't have done.

"I have a few—and I do emphasize a _few—_shiny baubles, but I don't really often _think_ about them, much less wear any of them."

"Not even for a _wedding?_ Good lord, child."

In her rush to get all three of them dressed and ready and off to the church on time, she hadn't given any thought to adorning herself—although she wasn't sure that she would have bothered much if she _hadn't_ been in her hectic state. Now, though, she was starting to feel like she was partially naked. Alice was right—it _was_ a special occasion. She ought to have worn something, right? Only she never had a reason to wear jewellery in her everyday life. The only ornament she ever wore consistently was a pair of tiny silver hoops in her ears—the earrings Will had given her not long after she'd confessed her love for him and agreed to stay with him for good. She was wearing them now, but that was all.

The rest of her things were kept in a plain wooden box, cleverly hidden away in a well-disguised hole, disguised as one of the wooden filigrees in the moulding at the bottom of the wall in her and Will's bedroom. There wasn't a great deal in that box—just a few pairs of ornate earrings that she'd never think to wear, her mother's plain gold wedding band with the name _Nadra_ engraved in Arabic script on the inside, a silver ring with a white opal that Bassam gave her when she turned ten, her mother's long and delicate silver chain that Djaq could easily wrap about her neck three times, another necklace of dozens silver discs and little multicoloured gems, and two or three carved silver cuff bracelets.

Once, the jewellery was set to be her dowry for when she married; after her brother died, she thought to sell the trinkets, but she couldn't bring herself to do it no matter how badly she needed the money. Even though she kept them, she still hardly ever wore them.

Now she was thinking it probably would have been a good idea to wear something. After all, that's what they were _there_ for.

"I suppose I just did not think to do it," she offered. "I do not normally dress up. I am sorry."

Alice clucked reassuringly. "Don't apologize—you haven't done anything wrong. We'll just have to improvise."

After she finished applying her makeup, the woman sat with a contemplative frown, gently tapping her lower lip with the eye pencil in thoughtfulness as Djaq fidgeted under her scrutiny. Finally, she stopped the tapping and smiled.

"Somebody please pass one of those ribbons over this way," she said, addressing anybody in the fray of young women who would listen.

"The blue or the pink?" One of them asked back.

"Pink, please—to match the young lady's dress," Alice replied with a smile.

With the length of pink satiny ribbon in hand, she carefully removed her own earrings—a pair of pearl drops dangling from silver hearts—and held them while she tied the ribbon in a bow around her neck, and then fastened one of the earrings through the knot of the bow, making an improvised necklace for her.

One of the other girls relinquished one of her bracelets for Djaq, and a flower from one of the many arrangements was clipped into her hair behind her ear, and after that Alice decided with a nod that she was suitably made up for the ceremony.

"Hey, girls!" Allan came bursting through the door, sending the occupants of the little room into a frenzied dash to cover up Marian and themselves.

"No boys allowed!" One of the girls yelled, shaking her finger at him.

But Allan was standing in the door with a hand over his eyes. "I'm not lookin'!" He defended himself. "You girls can go on ironing your knickers or whatever it is you were doing before I came in here."

"He's _so_ crude," the same young woman huffed, turning away from him.

"What is going on?" Djaq asked, coming away from the group to stand in front of her friend. "You can't have come in here just because you wanted to scare the ladies."

"Maybe," he grinned behind his hand, cracking the fingers to peek down at her. His expression softened. "Well, hello there, gorgeous."

She blushed, unsure of how to respond to that. "Yes, I know it is different to see me dressed up."

"An _attractive_ different."

She had to actively try not to reflexively bite her rouged lip, lest the makeup come off on her teeth. "Thank you."

"What do you _want,_ Allan?" Alice called back.

"Oh, right—you've all _got_ to run over to the window and have a look-see what Robin's done!"

Marian spun quickly. "Robin? What happened?"

"He's just turned up," he explained. "But—oh, just look out the front window, you have to see this to believe it!"

Seven women immediately made their way to the window, peering out from behind the curtain to the road beyond the churchyard.

Doing what normal, sensible, sane grooms did and being happy with hiring a nice car for the wedding absolutely wasn't enough for Robin. Instead, he turned up at the church with his own personal choice of hired vehicle: a big posh brown-and-gold carriage hitched behind two neatly groomed spotted white ponies, their manes plaited and trimmed with pink and blue bows. On the back of the carriage was a large sign tied into the little back window, _"FINALLY Married",_ written in lacy script.

"Well," Djaq began, but she said nothing after that.

"It's very Robin-esque, isn't it?" Allan observed.

"'Robin-esque'?" She repeated. "That is a new word."

"They should add it to the Oxford English Dictionary—as a synonym for excess." Then he shrugged. "I think it's sort of sweet."

"So do I."

He patted her on the shoulder with an admiring smile. Again, she felt the littlest twinge of guilt flare up within herself—she didn't know when, or if, that feeling would ever go away.

"I'd better get out of here before the girls all decide I need to die for having seen all of you," he joked. "I'll see you in church—good luck with all of these ladies."

With that, he left.

Cries of "How sweet!" and "That's so clever!" echoed around the room as the girls looked over and around one another to see the scene outside the window.

"Oh, goodness," Marian sighed, shaking her head with a hand on her forehead. She was laughing quietly. "Oh, Robin…"

"Is something wrong?" Djaq asked. She, personally, thought that the horse-drawn-carriage was a little excessive, but it _was_ Robin—he could get away with doing something like that and not look a ninny—and the gesture itself was sweet.

"No, nothing's wrong," she said. "It's just… funny. Silly. In a good way." She sighed again, but this time she turned and looked at the younger woman—her grey eyes shone with tears and she looked a little nervous. "It's just that… this is real. This is _really_ happening."

She sniffled slightly and quickly reached for a nearby box of tissues, mopping away the tears before the ruined her makeup.

"Are you starting to get a bit overwhelmed?" She asked.

"Maybe just a little." She smiled.

Outside, Robin was hopping down from the carriage, looking very smart in his tails and striped trousers. There were other groomsmen, dressed just as smartly, coming out of the carriage along with him. Much was there, looking profoundly uncomfortable in the fancy clothes, but Djaq only recognized one of the other groomsmen as a friend of Robin's. She didn't know who any of the rest of them were.

Guests began filing into the church, slowly at first and then coming in waves. Cars drove up and stopped, letting sometimes a comically large number of people out like a clown car at a circus. The vicar and some of the groomsmen began ushering people into the church, separating the bride's guests from the groom's and keeping the crowd under control. It wasn't at all surprising that there was such a large turnout for this wedding—the people in Nottingham had been waiting for this wedding for a long time, with as much anticipation if not _more_ anticipation than the bride and groom themselves.

The time of the ceremony drew nearer; some of the girls were still primping themselves in front of the various mirrors and fussing over Marian, who looked perfect already.

Djaq couldn't find anything to busy herself with, so she stayed out of the way and watched with a sort of curious awe as the women kept returning to the mirrors, as if their appearances could have been mussed in the few seconds they were away from their reflections.

She was beginning to feel antsy, anxious for this whole affair to start so that they could get out of this little room, crowded with too many girls being far too girly in too small a space. Small bouquets of flowers, wrapped at the bottom with lengths of lace and ribbon, were being passed around.

There was a knock at the door, and she got up to answer it. It was Allan again, his hand still over his eyes.

"You _can_ look," she said. "We are all fully clothed."

He kept the hand in place. "The vicar says to tell you to get yourselves together, that there's ten minutes until show time."

"Everybody's in and settled already?" Marian asked. "That was fast."

"I think everybody's just ready for everything to get moving. Much's been saying that the congregation might be more anxious than the bride and bridegroom. Anyway, you might want to get a move on."

With gently stern directives and the ease of practice, Marian managed to get the rest of the bridal party sorted, standing in a row outside the doors to the church and waiting for the organ music to begin, to cue their walk down the aisle. Robin's groomsmen were present, as well, and they followed the woman's orders and held their tongues.

"Will you swap places with me, Djaq?" One of the girls asked in hushed tones. "Please?"

This was an odd request. "Why?"

"Because I'm stuck with Much, and you're paired with that dishy Carter—unless _you_ want to walk with Carter," she offered, though the look in her eyes was a pleading one.

She frowned, and looked at the line of groomsmen to see who she was talking about; Carter was the tall young man with short-cropped ash blond hair and slate blue eyes, and a sly Allan-like smile. He _was_ quite handsome, actually.

But he wasn't Will, she thought to herself.

"Go ahead," she sighed, quickly swapping places with the other young woman and coming to stand adjacent to a rather grateful-looking Much.

The sound of the wedding march played on the church's old pipe organ reverberated through the massive wooden doors; the men opened them, allowing the two lines of bridesmaids and groomsmen to enter the sanctuary, and with that the ceremony began.

o…o

The young woman sighed an enormous sigh of relief, leaning back in the chair at one of the many long tables at the wedding reception. The English really knew how to throw a party—or at least, Robin and Marian knew how to throw a party—but after standing for the entire wedding ceremony, Djaq was more than happy to sit down and rest her aching feet for a little while.

She wondered if all weddings were like this one had been. Everything was so light-hearted, not at all sombre or intensely serious like she thought a wedding might be. The vicar asked the congregation that if anybody present knew just cause for the couple before them not to be wed, let him speak now or forever hold his peace; Marian responded to this by turning around and facing those present and announcing, "Go ahead—I _dare_ you!"

And when they were _finally_ married, when the couple had their first married kiss, Robin made a show of it and made the kiss as dramatically romantic as he could manage. The wedding guests actually applauded.

The reception afterwards was outdoors, at Robin's house. The newlyweds rode to the party alone in the carriage Robin hired—the whole thing was a grand show and highly amusing. Robin's place had been set up for the party with a flat platform set up to be a dance floor, a band played on the small raised stage, long buffet tables held more food than even all of _these_ people could possibly eat, and tall torches surrounding were lit as the evening wore on and the sun began to set.

Robin looked enormously happy and proud, grinning from ear to ear and laughing happily; he stood by her side and rarely came away from her for more than a few minutes at a time. Marian, too, was giddy and smiling girlishly, her cheeks flushed pink. Often it seemed as though they were in their own little world, sitting close and staring into one another's eyes and often ignoring everybody else. Djaq didn't think she would ever live to see two people as deliriously happy and so completely in love as these two people were right now.

Just about everybody had something to say to the couple, some toast to make or some anecdote to recount during the beginning of the reception. It was amazing how many people cared so much about Robin and Marian's relationship, and how many people were almost happier than they themselves were that they were finally getting married. It was terribly sweet—for _them._ Djaq couldn't help but think that if this sort of attention was paid to herself and Will, it would make her awfully nervous.

She sat back in her chair and sighed, taking a drink from her glass. While everybody else was downing champagne and cider by the bucket, she was more than happy to drink ginger ale. Since Allan's party last year, she'd found that she didn't do well on cider and avoided alcohol. All around her, people were picking at food from the tables, dancing out on the floor, or chatting with friends and family who had come into town just for the wedding. For the first time in years, she found herself feeling a little bit out of place—she only knew a handful of people at this wedding, and there had to be at least a hundred and fifty present. She'd had a few requests to dance from young men, but she politely turned them down.

Her seat was fairly far away from her friends, from Will and Luke and Allan, so she found herself feeling a little awkward and lonely. She could hardly get up and swap seats, especially being a member of the bridal party.

She didn't notice Marian come up next to her.

"Are you all right, Djaq?"

She startled. "Oh—yes, I am fine, thank you."

The woman didn't look convinced. "Are you _sure?_ You look a little lost."

"Perhaps a little."

"I would recommend you have a drink, but I've seen what happens when you drink. Why don't you go find your boys? It can't be much fun for you to be stuck here in Estrogen Central."

Djaq giggled.

"Go on, the seating arrangement isn't law."

"Thank you," she sighed, getting up and going to find her friends.

She found Luke and Will sitting alone at their table, looking as lost as she felt. This didn't surprise her—neither of them were particularly fond of big gatherings like this. She came up to the vacant chair next to Will. He hadn't stayed put-together for very long after the wedding ceremony; he was sitting slumped back in his seat with his tie loosened and his collar hanging open, and he was clutching what looked like a half-empty glass of cider in his hands. He probably needed a little bit of the liquid courage.

"I was starting to wonder where you were," he remarked as she sat down. He took her hand and kissed it. "I thought you might be fighting the young men off with a stick."

She giggled and played along. "Maybe a few—but they do not stand a chance against you."

"I've got trouble believing you've been _ignored_ this whole time," he said, carefully reaching across the distance between them and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

A smile crept across her lips at his action. "I have had two or three offers for dance partners," she said. "I told them 'no' and that was that."

"I'd've thought you'd be in the double digits by now—else, why didn't you come to see me sooner."

"I had to get permission from Marian before I felt comfortable leaving my seat," she confessed. "How have you been faring?"

"Let's just say I won't be disappointed when it's time to go home."

"Neither will I," she admitted. "It's nice for Marian and Robin, but I find it all a little overwhelming."

"Allan's been doing pretty well," he noted, drawing her attention out across the floor. Their friend was twirling around with a bridesmaid wrapped around his neck. "That's his fifth girl of the evening."

"At least _somebody_ is enjoying himself."

Will reached over with a smirk and dragged her chair closer to him, lifting her up and plunking her down in his lap. She squeaked and looped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his.

"I dunno, I'd say I'm fairly happy at the moment," he declared.

There was a bored groan. "Oh, for goodness _sake."_

She turned and nodded towards Luke, who was leaning on his arms draped over the back of his chair and staring quite forlornly out onto the dance floor. "Is he all right?"

"Lukey? Oh, he's just a bit disappointed because the last three girls he's asked to dance with him turned him down."

"Is it the hair?"

"Possibly—either that or it's because he's, you know, fifteen. I think he aims a little high," he said. He turned to her and grinned. "I can hardly blame him, though. Look at how well his big brother did."

She blushed.

"I can hear you two talkin' about me over there," the younger boy growled, looking at them out of the corner of his eye.

Djaq felt a little sorry for him—being as shy as he was, it couldn't have been easy for him to muster up the nerve to ask a girl to dance, let alone three, and it must have been incredibly disheartening to be turned down _all three times._

She nudged Will's hands from her waist.

"What?" He asked.

"I will be right back," she assured, and slid off of him.

He was watching her as she stepped over to Luke, stretching out a hand. "Shall we dance, Luke?"

The boy looked up at her with those big sad blue eyes and a sulky expression on his face. "Why?" He snorted.

"Don't be fresh, little brother," Will snapped.

"I have a soft spot for the strong silent types," she said. "Come and dance with me—perhaps the other girls will get a few ideas."

Luke tried to act like the dance was a chore, but she could tell he was happy about it. She danced once with him before he decided to take a chance with another girl, a shy-looking wallflower from out of town, and then happily spent the rest of the evening with _her—_which left Djaq free to do as she liked.

She danced a few times with Allan to humour him, and once with a jovially intoxicated Robin, and then with Will again. They didn't stay out on the floor for a terribly long time, and instead retired to a quiet corner of the reception to snuggle close together and watch the people around them.

They watched everybody as the evening wore into night, and the crowd began to thin, and the torches lining the area were beginning to die down. Robin and Marian had left some time ago, but the party still continued for many hours; the people who were still about were getting steadily saturated with drink and starting to slow down.

The band eventually left, but one of the guests managed to track down a portable phonograph and a large stack of vinyl records to keep the atmosphere going—though nobody was dancing much and were all simply sitting around at the tables, eating the rest of the food, and consuming the rest of the alcoholic beverages.

It grew chilly as the night wore on, and Djaq snuggled up close to Will for his warmth. He took his jacket off and draped it over her shoulders; she sighed and huddled up in the garment, pulling it closed to ward off the evening chill.

Somebody—nobody saw who, exactly, but it must have been somebody _stupid—_gave Luke a few drinks over the course of the evening, rendering the poor boy completely legless and stumbling around. Allan, who wasn't himself entirely on solid ground, came over to the couple with the boy hanging off his shoulder, looking a little green.

"Mate, I think we've should pro'bly get goin'," he slurred. "Your brother just hurled up everything but his shoes."

"Oh, geez," Will groaned. "What happened?"

"I think he's had a few too many."

"I din't have few," the boy tried to defend himself. "I din' have _none."_

Will tried to sound serious as he spoke, but a few chuckles escaped around his words. "I can't… believe somebody let you get _drunk._ You look like you're dying of consumption!"

"Don't worry, mate, it'll all catch up with him in the morning," Allan said, as if this would somehow reassure his friend.

"I _feel_ like I'm dying…" Luke groaned.

"Serves you right."

"Yeah, well, I've learned my lesson. That's my last drink until I'm about forty," he whined, clutching his head. Djaq clucked quietly offering him a glass of water—she knew _that_ feeling all too well.

"C'mon, stand up a bit," Will ordered, pulling him up by the arm and supporting him over rubbery legs. "And we'll get you home."

Djaq kept her eye on a slightly wobbling Allan and Will practically carried his brother during the walk up the steep hill from Robin's property to the front of his house; a few taxicabs were loitering along the road out in front of the big house, waiting to pick up the remaining guests and take them home.

Normally, the group wouldn't have bothered to hire a car, preferring instead to walk home—after all, it was a pleasant evening and there was little sense in wasting money on a cab when it would have been such a nice walk—but being sleepy, tipsy, and a bit tired from being on their feet in their uncomfortable formal shoes, none of them really fancied making that long trip back to the Scarlett house and they stumbled into the nearest cab one after another.

Luke kept drifting in and out of consciousness, lolloping from one shoulder to another and back again; Will grumbled quietly about wishing he could find out who'd given his brother so many drinks.

"It's not that I care that he had a drink," he explained in a whisper-yell, righting Luke before the boy hit his head on the window. "But I'd rather I had some control over how _much_ he had. I mean, just _look_ at him!"

"'Least he knows his own tolerance now," Allan offered with a shrug.

When the car rolled to a stop outside their house, they once again discovered that Robin Locksley had prepared for every contingency—all of the drivers had been paid beforehand to take the wedding guests to their respective homes or their rented rooms in inns and bed and breakfasts.

Allan raised his eyebrows as he watched the cab rumble off down the dark road, back in the direction of Robin's place. "That man never leaves _anything_ to chance, does he?"

Djaq shrugged. "He takes care of people."

Luke was still groaning softly, his head hanging limply on his shoulders.

"Here, mate—let me have him," the young man said, gesturing to Will to hand his brother to him. "I've got experience managing drunken people," he teased with a wink in Djaq's direction. "I'll make sure he gets to bed."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. It might be partially my fault because I gave him some cider—not all of it!" He clarified quickly when Will frowned. "Just one glass! I dunno where he got the rest of it. Come on, kid, try and make your legs work—and don't throw up on me, these are my good trousers…"

Djaq giggled quietly and shook her head as she watched the pair of them hobble up the stairs into the darkened hallway.

"What a night," Will sighed, pulling off his shoes and peeling his dress shirt off, leaving him in his vest with his braces hanging down on his legs.

She hummed wordlessly in agreement and nodded as she stepped out of her own shoes and left Will's suit jacket on the banister at the bottom of the stairs. They instinctively gravitated towards the kitchen, the place they usually sat and talked together, being careful to keep their voices down.

He pulled up a chair and sat backwards on it, watching her carefully as she unpinned the flower from her hair and untied the ribbon from around her neck. She was used to Will staring at her, watching her every move—it was just something he did—but there was a strange, somewhat alien sort of intensity about him now. She didn't know if it was from tiredness or drink or something else, but she wasn't completely sure what to make of it.

"It's about time they got married—Nottingham won't soon forget _this_ party."

"I should think not. How long has everybody been waiting for this wedding, anyway?" She asked. She often wondered how long the couple had been together, but she kept getting different information from different people.

He shrugged. "Ten years, probably a little more. They were like Nottingham's sweethearts."

She giggled. "I cannot think of any two people who deserve to be married more than Robin and Marian," she sighed.

To that, he said nothing—just kept looking at her with that strange intensity in his face. It made her shiver faintly.

"They both looked so happy," he murmured.

"Of course they did," she said. "They have been waiting for this for such a very long time."

"Sometimes it was like there were just the two of them—nobody else in the world even existed."

She nodded. "I know."

"D'you think we do that?"

"Probably."

She took a dishcloth from the drawer next to the sink and dampened it under the warm water, then used it to wipe the makeup from her face. Even though her back was turned to him and she couldn't see, she knew that he was still watching her. She used the cloth to wipe what remained of her stocking seams from her legs, and then set the cloth aside.

"Would you help me, please?" She asked, gesturing to the buttons down the back of her dress. "I would very much like to get out of this dress."

He nodded and slowly began to undo the little pearly-pink buttons all the way down her back. Now free of the dresses restraints, she wriggled out of it and let the pink material pool around her legs; she picked it up and folded it carefully, draping the garment over the back of one of the chairs and standing before him now in just her slip.

He never took his eyes off of her.

Silence; he was debating _something_ in his mind, she could see it in his eyes, but she couldn't even begin to guess _what._

Seconds ticked by, lengthened into minutes. It seemed like he was waiting for something. There was no sound from upstairs; both Allan and Luke were probably out cold in bed by now, leaving just the two of them in the house. She felt the need to keep herself busy, and set about trying to clean the cloth she used to clean the makeup off of her face.

"It's May," he said softly after a time.

"Yes, I—I know that," she said, unsure of how to respond to such a blatantly obvious observation.

"You've been living here for three years now."

"Oh… yes—it hardly seems like that long, does it?"

"No."

"Why bring it up? Are you determined to make an honest woman out of me?" She joked with a somewhat uneasy grin over her shoulder, soaping up the dishcloth in the sink and trying to get the last remnants of her makeup out of the cloth and wringing it into the sink.

Pause.

It was another one of those uneasy and somewhat tense silences between them. She was almost afraid to turn around.

"W-well," he began, slow and stuttering. He sounded so sweetly, adorably nervous. "I don't know how to say this, but… Djaq, I love you—and, well, I was—the thing is…"

Another pause. She heard him move and this time she turned around.

He was kneeling on the floor.

"Marry me?"

She spun around and gasped quietly, immediately forgetting about the dishcloth in the sink and everything else in the world.

He'd just proposed.

_Will had just proposed._

She hadn't expected _that;_ it came out of absolutely nowhere! Or maybe it didn't. This was the sort of thing he would have been thinking about for _ages._

Her mouth was hanging open, her eyes were wide with surprise.

Marrying Will Scarlett? She'd thought about it so many times since being involved with Marian's wedding planning—she'd thought of it _more_ since she revealed her secret injury, her inability to bear children, to Will some months ago, and he said that he loved her no matter what. Her apparently sudden thoughts of marriage were alien even to her; she didn't know how to respond to them herself, let alone how to say anything about it to _him _without sounding like she was trying to pressure him.

But, now he was there before her, _kneeling,_ asking her to marry him. He clearly hadn't planned this, let the question come because the moment just presented itself. They were in the darkened kitchen, exhausted from the day's events, partially undressed, while Luke and Allan were asleep upstairs—a patently unromantic time and place for a marriage proposal.

And yet, she felt giddy and her heart fluttered.

Whenever she thought about marriage, she wondered if she was old enough or mature enough to make such a commitment; she knew that part of her would always doubt things, would always fear the unknown. But what did she have to be afraid of now?

Nothing.

He was looking up at her with the most terrified expression she'd ever seen on him before, his eyes wide and worried and his lower lip quivering ever so slightly—the fear of rejection was there in his face, just behind his eyes. His whole face was red, and his hands trembled as he kept them on his knee. He must have been thinking about this for a long time, and she knew it took a great deal of courage for Will to take any chance or make a leap of faith like this.

Her silence must have been terrifying for him.

"Will, stand up, please," she said quickly.

"Huh?"

"Get up off the floor—please," she pleaded. "I will not answer until you've stood up."

"Is that a no?" He asked, looking quite crestfallen.

"Just stand up."

Dazed, he obeyed, still looking absolutely terrified.

Her insides melted as she reached up and cupped his cheek in her hand. She stood on her toes and kissed him softly.

"You cannot honestly think that I would say no. I love you—of _course_ I will marry you."

She waited a few seconds, watching his face carefully as he deciphered her words. His face broke into a huge smile and his eyes lit up.

"You will?" He croaked.

There was no doubt in her mind anymore. It could be no other way. "Yes—yes," she said, jumping into his arms and kissing him once again.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I can honestly say I'm _not_ proud of having produced such a monstrously long chapter! I need to go to "Wordiness Anonymous" or something…

Until next week, then!


	18. June, 1944

This chapter is more or less just a lot of gratuitous, pointless fluff. It does very little in the way of advancing the plot of the story—I just wrote it because I felt like writing something syrupy, cavity-inducing sweet. I haven't really written any of that for this story and, well, I wanted to. The plot will actually advance again after this.

Disclaimer: I don't own it!

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**June, 1944**

The weeks following Wills proposal were full of a lot of tentative "Are you sure"s and "We don't have to"s and "Are we ready for this"s and all manner of nervous questioning. So many questions—they talked about it in private a great deal afterwards. Each of them separately knew that this was what _they_ wanted, but were less sure about each other; they were both afraid that they were forcing the other into something.

But, really, what was there to worry about? They were completely, hopelessly, _ridiculously_ in love with each other. Though they hadn't been together for a terribly long time when compared with other long-time couples, they had nonetheless been together for _some_ time—and even so, he still made her giggly and silly, made her stomach erupt in butterflies and her brain melt just like she was a schoolgirl with a crush. She still had the same effect on him, too, making him blush and smile in that wonderfully sweet and bashful way, as if their love was still new. They both knew what made the other tick, what they liked and didn't like. They preferred one another's company, loved spending time with each other more than anybody else.

There was simply no way they would _not_ be together. Everybody who knew them knew that.

Eventually, one morning about two weeks after the proposal, Djaq woke up and decided that if they were going to keep hesitating so much and analyzing their situation, they were never _ever_ going to get married—and that it was time to take the bull by the proverbial horns and just _do it._

"Will, get up," she said, sitting up in bed and shaking him by one bare shoulder. He was naked from the waist up—he always slept in just his shorts in the summer, something she very much liked, she noted as she gazed down at his bare chest.

He grumbled wordlessly as he rolled over onto his stomach, reaching up to pull one of the pillows over his head.

"Up." She shook him a bit harder this time.

"I don't want to," he whined back, his voice muffled beneath the pillow over his head.

"Will!"

She saw him heave a sigh and peek out from under his pillow. "What's wrong?"

"We are being silly," she told him. "I love you, and you love me—I want to marry you, and you want to marry _me._ So what, exactly, are we waiting for?"

The pillow was off of him now, and he was on his side and supporting his head on his hand, his lips turned up in a huge grin. That grin widened until he was chuckling softly, shaking his head.

"I dunno," he said. "What _are_ we waiting for?"

"We are horribly overanalyzing ourselves and hesitating far too much," she said. "And being completely _ridiculous._ Get up, and get dressed. We are getting married today."

She punctuated her command with a quick but gentle smack to his shoulder before sliding out of bed herself and beginning to rifle through the bureau drawers for her clothing. She was half into a pair of jeans before she looked back towards the bed and saw that Will was still sitting there, looking incredibly amused. She pulled her pants up the rest of the way and fastened them before looking sternly at him with her fists planted on her hips.

"Well?"

"You're being a bit authoritarian, aren't you?" He asked, still smiling.

"I know—because that is the only way we are going to get this done." She came to sit on the edge of the bed with her shirt in her hands. "Are you complaining?"

"No—I'm actually quite enjoying it," he told her. He sat up and leaned forward to kiss her softly before he, too, got out of bed and began to dress himself.

There were just the three of them—Will and Djaq and Allan—in the house now. Luke could only stay for a few days after the wedding; he was going to come back in August for his annual summer holiday trip to see them, but for now he was back in Scarborough. The only possible witness they had was Allan, and they'd have to rouse him from sleep and most likely forcibly drag him to the Registry Office.

Last night, their friend had been out very late at a pub with some friends from work. He was out for a very long time—she and Will went to bed rather on the late side themselves and he hadn't come home yet. She wasn't entirely sure how unwilling he would be to drag himself out of bed prematurely and come with them.

Djaq wrinkled her nose walking into Allan's bedroom. The place _smelled_ terrible, musky and scummy and tinged with a scent that could only be described as 'the reek of boys'. She found him in bed, the sheets tangled around his legs, his shorts partially hanging down off of his backside and his undershirt twisted and hiked up around his armpits—he was clutching his pillow quite passionately, drooling a little bit on it as he snored quietly. It was dark in here, with the curtains drawn, and yesterday's clothes were discarded and left on the floor along with all of the clutter, all of it making the room look not unlike a cave.

A smelly cave with a hibernating bear. How fitting.

She nudged him carefully with her fingertips, covering her nose with the other hand. He didn't even stir.

"Allan," she said loudly.

No response.

"Allan!" She shoved him again.

Nothing.

"Come on, get up!"

Still nothing. She huffed quietly and held her breath, soundly rattling him and trying to tug the pillow out from under him so she could hit him with it.

"Get out of bed!"

"Nuh," he grunted. "Whatever it is, I'm not interested."

"You don't even want to know what it is?" She drawled.

"Nuh."

"Will and I have an errand to run, and we need your help."

Grunt.

"Please?"

He turned his head to the side and looked bleary-eyed up at her. His cheeks were dark with unshaven whiskers.

"'S'it important?"

"Well, yes," she said. "We would not ask you if it wasn't."

He grunted against his pillow and slowly began to pull himself up. He looked like he was mulling it over.

"If you come with us, we will buy you breakfast," she baited him.

"Oh, all _right,"_ he relented, slowly rolling over and pulling himself into a sitting position. He smacked his tongue around in his mouth and gingerly rubbed the sleep from his face.

"Thank you!" She sighed.

"Can I shower first?"

"Oh, yes—please do."

"What's goin' on, anyway?" He asked.

"We will tell you later," she said. "The sooner we are on the way, the better."

Allan was either too tired and groggy, or else not really interested enough this early in the morning to ask any further questions; he lumbered out of bed and she let him alone to have his shower.

Will was waiting in the kitchen, boiling water for tea; she came up behind him and nudged his shoulder gently with her cheek. He turned around and smiled that crooked smile, cupping her cheek and kissing her forehead.

"You _are_ sure about this, aren't you?" He asked her gently.

She sighed frustratedly. "Of _course _I am! If I wasn't sure, I would not be so anxious to do this. I am getting very tired of all of this hesitation." She paused. "Are _you_ sure about it?"

"Yes!" He replied quickly.

"Good," she said, reaching up to place her hand on his cheek.

"How'd you get Allan up?" He asked. "By force?"

"I told him that we would buy him breakfast."

"Ah."

They waited for Allan to slog out of the shower and drag himself downstairs, and then for him to swallow a cup of tea to start his engine.

Finally, he was ready to go. Djaq and Will both gathered up the papers they would need, and then headed out on their way, all without telling their friend what, exactly, they were doing. They hadn't told him, or indeed told _anybody,_ about Will's proposal and their plans to marry—it was going to come as a surprise to him.

He whinged the entire way, on the walk to the bus and for the ride over—he wanted to know what errand they had to run that required a third person to accomplish, or what was so important that it couldn't have waited a few hours until he was properly awake.

And then they stopped in front of the registry office, and he went silent very quickly.

He looked back and forth between the two of them, and then looked at the door to the office, and then looked back to them again as it suddenly dawned on him.

"Are you getting _married?"_ He asked finally.

"Bravo, Allan!" Djaq said sarcastically, her arms crossed and a smile on her lips.

"And you thought he wouldn't realize what was going on until the registrar asked him to sign as the witness," Will said to her in a slightly lofty tone.

"No, I said he would work it out in about a week or so."

"_You're getting married!"_

"Yes, Allan," Will said. "We're getting married."

He laughed and grabbed them both, grasping them around their shoulders and hugging them tightly as he congratulated them over and over again.

"Why didn't you _tell_ anybody?" He asked. "Or at least, why didn't you tell _me?"_

"We did not want anybody to make a big affair out of it—you know how people are," Djaq said. "And we were… a bit hesitant about the whole thing."

"You two? Hesitating over something like this?" He grinned. "I dunno why that doesn't surprise me."

"So, you do not mind, then?" She asked.

"'Course not! When'd you pop the question, anyway, mate?" He asked Will.

"After we came home after Robin and Marian's wedding," he said.

"Wedding fever got to you, too, eh?" He nudged him with his elbow, winking.

Will blushed pink. "Maybe."

The registrar, a balding middle-aged man, looked suspiciously over the tops of his thick square glasses as three jovially laughing young adults shuffled in through the front door. Allan was in the middle and the other two one either side of him, with his arms around their necks.

"May I help you?" He asked slowly after watching them for a moment.

"Yes, please—ow!" Will stumbled sideways. "All right, Allan, you can get off of us now!"

"Oh, _fine,"_ he sighed, releasing them and tucking his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The movement jerked Will to the side and he had to lunge for a nearby file cabinet to keep from falling over; this, in turn, almost brought down the entire file cabinet.

Behind the desk, the registrar looked entirely unamused.

"Are you all right?" Djaq asked as she helped him steady himself. "Why must you be such an irritant, Allan?" She huffed at her friend.

He looked guiltily down at the floor like a little scolded child. "Why don't you tell the man what we came here for?"

"Right, yes. We'd like to get married," he said, going over to the desk where the man was still eyeing them nervously.

"Married?" He asked, looking at the three of them in turn. He looked strangely suspicious again. "Who—and to whom?"

Allan began laughing; Djaq put her face in one hand and giggled quietly while Will's eyebrows climbed up his forehead.

"_I'm_ marrying _her,"_ he clarified, taking her by the elbow and bringing her to stand next to him.

"Ah! I… I wasn't sure for a moment there," he trailed off briefly, fiddling with the nosepiece on his glasses before he began rifling through desk drawers and file cabinets in search of the appropriate papers. "I'll need to see birth certificates and identification cards while you fill these out—"

Something occurred to her suddenly, and she leaned over the desk to get his attention once again.

"There is one more thing," she said.

"Yes, miss?"

"I would like to change my name—can I do that here?"

"Change… what? You're getting _married,_ of course you're going to change your name."

"No, no, I meant my first name."

Pause.

"Is that a problem?" She asked.

"I—I don't suppose it is, no…" he paused and looked at her oddly. "What do you want to change it for—what do you want to change it _to?"_

As if they hadn't already worried the man enough for one day, she answered him without thinking how it would sound.

"Djaq," she said simply.

He took off his glasses and frowned at her.

"'_Jack'?"_ He repeated. "You want… a man's name?" The registrar looked as if he was contemplating turning them out. The three of them must have been the most unusual people he'd seen in a long time, possibly in his entire career. This probably wasn't something he did every day—giving a woman a man's name.

He was also probably trying to remember if there was a law or something that prevented a woman from legally taking a man's name.

She had to fight the sigh that was burbling up in her chest. "It is a nickname," she lied, rather than having to explain her whole story to the registrar. "I have been going by that name for more than seven years—I _would_ like to make it official. Is that all right?"

Pause.

"I suppose so," he said, defeated, while he pulled up the necessary forms.

The couple stood side-by-side at the desk as they filled out their marriage license and certificate and said their vows, which were oddly clinical-sounding words when compared with the lyrical vows in a church ceremony. When Allan came up to sign on the witness line, she could swear she saw him quickly whip his hand up to wipe one eye.

It seemed so surreal, and at the same time so very natural. Here she was, standing in the registry office at eight in the morning, having arbitrarily decided that they were going to get married _today,_ and she was actually marrying Will Scarlett.

Marrying Will Scarlett.

She felt a jolt of thrilled happiness shoot through her whole body as she saw the words on the paper before them and the whole situation suddenly seemed so much more real. _This is to certify that __Safiyyah 'Djaq' Bseiso__, born __30 July, 1924__, and __William Andrew Scarlett__, born __13 March, 1923__, were united in Marriage on this __3__rd__ day of __June, 1944__._

It was all so wonderfully exciting. He put his hand on the back of her neck and rubbed it gently; she turned her head into his shoulder and nuzzled him affectionately, and he pressed a small kiss to the top of her head. Finally, they signed their names on the paper and made it official.

Djaq soon realized just how much Will had been planning for this event—she hadn't thought he would have made any preparations other than asking her to marry him, but just after they signed their certificate, he produced a little red velvet box from his pocket. Inside were two simple, plain silver rings. Wedding bands.

"I thought we might need 'em eventually," he said as he slid the ring onto her finger.

"This is so ridiculously sappy," Allan sighed as he watched them, leaning on the desk on his elbow.

"I know it is," she agreed, not taking her eyes off of Will. Not taking her eyes off of _her husband._

_Husband._ The word, even in her head, made the breath catch in her throat.

"But I cannot see it happening any other way."

He smiled, too, his eyes shining softly—pure adoration.

He lifted her up then and kissed her, their mouths colliding as he held her up in his arms.

Married—finally.

o…o

Their safe little bubble of isolated happiness was quite suddenly and shockingly burst three days after the simple little wedding, as the war descended on them once again. All around them, film news reports and radio broadcasts and print news all collectively converged upon the newest information from the war front—Allied forces stormed the beaches at Normandy, and slowly began to take France from Nazi control, bit by little bit.

News of the invasion came out of nowhere, surprising everybody—for such a while, it seemed like everything was at a sticky stalemate, without any side taking or losing territory.

For days afterward, it was all anybody could talk about, all anybody could _think_ about. The three of them went to see a film—the only one they could find playing at the time, an American film called "Arsenic and Old Lace"—just to watch the newsreels to find out what was going on amid frantic and chaotic-sounding radio broadcasts, and the newspapers that only came out twice a day. It was spectacular and frightening, all at the same time. A hundred thousand troops from Great Britain and the United States, from Canada and Australia and Free France and others, pouring onto the beaches, charging up the sand, and invading the occupied country.

It was all so frighteningly, and somehow _excitingly,_ gripping, and for some time they sat in a dumbstruck haze as they sat reading and watching and listening for the events unfolding just across the Channel. What would happen after? Would the war end—would it get _worse?_ Would there be some kind of retaliation from the enemy? Nobody knew. All they could do was watch, wait with bated breath for the next news to surface.

For so long, the war wasn't so foremost in their minds. They could think about _other_ things for a change, and it felt so liberating. Now, suddenly, there it was again—that dark spectre on the horizon. Except that this time, it wasn't quite as frightening; after the initial shock wore off and after the realization of what was happening began to sink in, so too did the realization that _it might actually work._ It was shocking.

And all strangely fascinating.

After that, it took some time for the three of them to concentrate on anything outside of war news. It was a difficult thing to do—it was so prominent in their minds that there was a brief time during which Djaq and Will forgot they'd gotten married. But the days wore on, and soon life returned to as normal as they could manage it.

Allan stayed in the house for a week, keeping a respectably good distance between his newly married friends. He didn't seem to be put off by the marriage, even though he still maintained the fringes of romantic feelings for Djaq—he was genuinely happy for his friends, that they'd finally gotten married. It seemed like _he_ was waiting for them to tie the knot for some time, and that he knew the union was coming and it was just a matter of time before they actually did it. Although what _did_ seem to worry him was that he was now living as a third wheel in a house with a pair of newlyweds. He even said he felt guilty that he was intruding on what was essentially supposed to be their honeymoon.

As much as they hated to admit it, they _did_ feel rather like they had to be on their guard while their friend was there. For the last year since he moved in with them, they kept themselves in check—it felt oddly like exhibitionism to have sex with him in the house.

And then one afternoon they came home to find the place empty; Allan had taken his clothes and things and left a note taped to the front door saying that he was going to be out of the house for two weeks so that they could have the place to themselves.

"I dunno, I just feel weird staying in the house with you two now that you're newly married 'n all," he said as a way of explaining himself when they asked him about it a few days later. "Marian's got a friend of hers minding her house while she and Robin are in Turkey—but she said I was free to stay there if I liked, so I think I'm gonna take her up on that offer and let you two in private for a while." Then he'd grinned cheekily at them and gave Will a sly little nudge with his elbow.

They'd looked at each other then, both of them thinking that they should probably say something about not minding his presence and it wasn't necessary for him to do this, but they didn't feel like taking this gift for granted. Instead, they thanked him and decided to enjoy the solitude that they had.

They didn't really have the money to pick up and have a long holiday somewhere for a 'proper' honeymoon, but then, there weren't all that many places that they _could_ go. Europe was a dangerously war-torn battlefield and had been for some years—no couple in their right mind, not even Robin and Marian, would honeymoon in Europe—and neither of them fancied packing up and trying to find last minute accommodations in a holiday town. So they decided simply to stay home and lock themselves in the house.

Djaq called out of work for two weeks—she expected to have to fight for it, but as soon as she mentioned that the time off was for a honeymoon, the department was all too happy to accommodate her request. Will stopped taking commissions and handed his other jobs off to people he knew in his field so that he was free to spend the time with her.

And that was that.

This morning was warm and humid and the room was a bit stuffy, but the windows were all closed and the curtains drawn, leaving the place suitably and comfortably dark. She woke up very slowly, yawning and rubbing her eyes tiredly and then drawing her hand back to look at it. The cool bit of silver on her third left finger still felt new and strange and a little alien—but then, she'd only been wearing the new wedding band for a little bit more than a week.

She sighed quietly and tried to roll onto her side, but was stopped by the twisted bed linens around her. The sheets were a tangled, sweaty mess around her legs and bunched up under her bare body.

She smiled to herself as she held the hand in front of her face, staring at the little silver ring. _Married._ She was _married._ Every time she thought about it, she felt wonderfully giddy. She was getting that wonderfully giddy, excited feeling a lot in the last two days, actually.

Her first impression of Will Scarlett five years ago wouldn't have suggested that she might one day marry him; she just thought he was nice, a sweet-natured young boy that treated her perfectly well, as one of his friends. The notion that he was _cute_ had occurred to her very early on in their friendship, but she was quick to put that assessment out of her mind, because, living as a boy, she couldn't afford to let such feelings live for too terribly long. And later, when she came to terms with her crush, she thought that he—that _both_ of them—were far too shy and awkward to be anything besides good friends. She'd seen him when they were younger, the way he was so very shy with girls.

It never would have occurred to her that she might one day fall in love with him, her sweetly shy and quiet friend—certainly not that she might one day marry him.

She sighed.

Of late, she felt that giddy and warm and fizzy feeling inside every time she recalled what she and Will had been doing for the past days—after all, it _was_ their honeymoon. They'd only had the house to themselves for two days, and in that time, Djaq had learned to be very careful as she went about the house. She grew used to—and thoroughly enjoyed—being grabbed up wherever she stood and carried off to the sofa or the bed. Sometimes they didn't make it _that_ far, and settled for the nearest horizontal surface—countertops, floor, table, absolutely anything. Even going up against the walls wasn't completely out of the realm of possibility.

But that's what made it fun.

It was, for the most part, nothing they hadn't done before, but the fact that they were married and there was absolutely nothing anybody could say to them about how supposedly 'wrong' it was now made it all the better.

Djaq frowned when she rolled over to an empty pillow. Will wasn't there. She didn't like waking up by herself—she could live with it when it happened, but she still didn't like it, and she found herself feeling a little disappointed that he wasn't there to wake up to. She sat up fully now and looked down at the floor, wondering if he hadn't fallen out of bed—nope, not there either.

Well, that was a bit off-putting.

She carefully disentangled herself from the blankets and pushed them aside, preparing to roll herself out of bed to go and look for him; just as she was going to put her feet on the floor, the bedroom door opened slowly, cautiously.

"Are you awake?" He asked in a soft voice through the small opening in the door.

"Yes." She smiled. "You _can_ come in, you know," she told him. "You do not have to ask."

He was smiling as he entered the room, his eyes crinkled at the corners in mirth. His hair was adorably sleep-rumpled and his cheeks were pink, and he was wearing his dressing gown tied loosely low on his hips with the top gaping open and revealing his chest. Bruises were starting to form on the pale flesh, the marks where she'd nipped him and bitten the night previous. In front of him, he carried a small round tray with two steaming mugs.

"It's tea," he answered before she could ask the question. He handed her one of the cups and kept the other for himself, putting the tray down on one of the bedside tables and sitting on the edge of the bed facing her.

"Thank you," she said.

They sat in silence, sipping tea and watching one another carefully. His gaze travelled all over her body, following her legs folded beneath her up to her stomach, the partially-hidden curve of her backside; his eyes lingered on her chest, watching her take a few breaths before continuing until his eyes rested once again on her face, looking into her black-gem eyes with his green ones. She gazed at him, as well, but with his body hidden by the fuzzy cloth robe there was a limit to what she could see. When he sat down, the dressing gown had shifted, dropping off of one thin shoulder and falling around his arm, and he didn't bother fixing it—she could see that whole side of his chest, and part of his stomach, and his long legs sticking out from underneath the hem of the robe.

He was beautiful—just utterly beautiful. She knew it was probably somehow wrong to say such a thing about a man, but there were no other words to describe Will Scarlett.

"Sleep well?" He asked.

"Mm." She nodded and placed her cup alongside his on the tray on the table. "When did you wake up?"

"About half an hour ago—I didn't want to wake you up. You looked awfully tired," he said with a sly smile.

She giggled. "You can hardly blame me, can you?"

"To be honest, I'm surprised you're still upright. I think at least _some_ of what we did last night is illegal." He traced his fingers ever so gently down her neck and across her shoulder and then down her arm, raising goosebumps as he went.

"Ah, but you forget," she said, reclining back on the pillows behind her like a pinup posing for a photographer. "We are married now. We can do anything we like."

He looked at her with that wicked-sly grin that made her heart leap excitedly within her chest. She didn't know what he was thinking, but it all soon became apparent when he quickly stood up and scooped her up in his arms, all in one swift, fluid motion. She squealed and darted her arms out to wrap them around his neck as he carried her out of the room and into the hall.

"What are you _doing?"_

"Anything I like," he answered simply. Then he kissed her, roughly and fiercely, devouring her surprised yelp and teasing her mouth.

He walked them into the bathroom, where the tub was already full of water. Before she could ask what he was doing, his arms fell out from under her and she found herself falling with a mighty splash and a tidal wave into the warm water.

"Hey!" She sputtered, sitting up and pushing her now soaking wet hair out of her face, then turning to scold him. Except that when she saw him shrugging out of his dressing gown her anger melted away immediately.

When he slid into the tub behind her, she snuggled back against him, bracketed on either side by his legs. He gently rested his hands on her hips under the water and bent his head low to press warm, slow kisses on her neck; she leaned her head back against his shoulder, rested her hands on his upraised knees, and sighed pleasantly. The water was warm and Will was comfortable and steady at her back.

His hands moved slowly on her body, running along her stomach and his fingernails dragging up and down her back, and then sliding down her sides and over her hips to her legs and then back again. He kept his touch relatively innocent and avoided touching her anywhere erotic, not her breasts or between her thighs. It was delightfully teasing, and at the same time wonderfully sweet—almost like he was trying to show her that he wanted more than just the physical, that he could touch her like this without it all immediately coming back to sex, even though she already knew it. She knew that he loved her just as she loved him—completely, totally.

And sometimes the chaste contact was the most delicious of all.

She arched her back and looped her arms behind herself and wound them around his neck, fastening her hands behind him and tilting her head all the way back to pull him down to her. The kisses, too, were fairly innocent, light and gentle pecks on their lips. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, keeping her back firmly pressed into his chest; she gently squeezed the nape of his long neck.

Behind her, she felt him growing stiff with arousal—she smiled against his mouth as he kissed her again, long and slow and sweet. Having slept well all night she was more than ready to go again, and she tried to shift around to face him, but he stopped her with a firm grip on her waist. She drew away with a questioning frown.

"Not now," he purred.

"Oh?"

"Later."

Her frown softened only slightly. "Then what—?"

He didn't answer; instead, he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Would you like me to wash your back?"

There was a pause, and she grinned slowly.

"Hmm, please," she murmured. She moved forward a little bit so that he could reach her, and when he laid a gentle hand on the top of her back, she hummed quietly, contentedly.

Warm soft cloth smoothed over her back and shoulders, dripping water and soapy suds down her back, and over her shoulders and down her chest. He followed it with his free hand, tracing patterns on her skin. He squeezed the washcloth, wringing the water down over her. Then he stopped, nuzzled her neck and kissed her shoulder.

She sighed as he gently lipped the side of her neck. The soapy cloth came up over her shoulder in little ticklish circles, travelling lower and lower across her chest and between her breasts as far as he could reach around her. She purred as she leaned back again so that he could reach more, and sighed gently. Again, she raised her arms and put them around his shoulders behind her—his hands grazed her sides, the sides of her breasts, and her eyes slid slowly closed.

The cloth fell from his hands into the water, forgotten. He left a line of little kisses along the curve of her shoulder, up her neck, up to her earlobe; she turned to him so she could kiss him properly. His mouth was warm as he caressed her lips, slow sweet kisses turning hotter and quick and delightfully feverish.

She clutched him tighter as his touch, too, became progressively less innocent. His fingers traced over her collarbone, down further to cup her breast in his hand, and a low groan rose up in her throat. The other hand left the relative safety of her shoulder and traced tiny little circles and swirls all the way down her torso, in between her breasts and following the line down her stomach to her naval and—

She stopped him then, taking his hand away just before he could touch her. When he tried again with the other hand, she caught it, too, and held both of his hands firmly. A frustrated growl rose up in his chest, rumbling at her back.

"Turnabout is fair play," she told him.

The growl softened until it became a sigh; he could very easily have wrestled free from her, but he didn't. Instead, he let her turn around to face him and do as she liked, soaping her hands and sliding them up his chest and shoulders, then down his sides and his stomach, carefully and teasingly skirting his groin.

They stayed in the tub, washing and gently teasing one another, until the water went tepid and their hands were all wrinkly—and then sat a little longer, Djaq once again leaning back against him as she sat comfortably trapped by his legs and arms. She could have willingly stayed there all day.

He moved again, carefully standing and stepping out of the tub. She whimpered softly, disappointed at the loss of contact before she saw him offer a hand to help her out. She took it, grinning, as he took her out of the tub. He planted a small kiss on her forehead and wrapped her up in a towel, and then he lifted her up once again and carried her across the hall to the spare bedroom, all the while grinning in that wonderfully wicked way.

Life, as far as she was concerned right now, was perfect.

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

I told you—just a lot of gratuitously pointless fluff. I'm not particularly happy with the ending at the moment so I'll probably come back and change some things. Please review if you feel like it—it's always nice to know what people think.

Until next week, then!


	19. April and May, 1945

Once again, I want to take the time to thank everybody who's been reading this story and keeping up with it for so long. Plus those of you who take the time to leave feedback—it's always good to know what does and doesn't work in a story! It helps me know what to keep doing, and what to change.

I don't have a lot to say about this chapter. It should have been far more emotional than it turned out, but sometimes you get such incredibly intense feelings that you go numb for a while. Ever get like that?

Disclaimer: BBC owns the Robin Hood characters, not me. I don't profit from their use.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**April and May, 1945**

He sat out in front of the shop, quietly and contentedly carving away at a small block of wood with his trusty old knife. This one would be the second bear, he'd decided, the female. He'd put a bow on her head later, just to make it a little bit silly. What was left? He had one bear, a pair of horses, a pair of cats, two dogs, two camels, one giraffe, one rabbit—Djaq joked about that, saying he'd put the second one in last to avoid them reproducing and making more little wooden bunnies—and an elephant. All that were left to make were the other rabbit, giraffe, and elephant, and the bull and cow.

This newest commission was more fun than his usual jobs of making or repairing furniture, putting up fences, building rabbit hutches, and putting in the occasional floor or moulding. One of his father's old patrons, the Marsden's, a couple now in their early fifties, had a new granddaughter; they asked him to make a wooden Noah's Ark set for the little girl for her first birthday present. He enjoyed himself immensely as he carved the little figurines and built the boat itself—the deck came off like a lid and the door at the bottom opened and closed. He'd even put it in the duck pond to see if it would really float, and it did. It was almost tempting to keep the toys for himself.

Briefly, he stopped, leaning his head back against the brick wall behind him and letting the warm sun bathe his face. It was a pretty spring day, like any other—except for the hail. The weather had been rather schizophrenic today, first starting out gray and drizzly, turning into a little hailstorm, before the sky finally cleared of clouds and the sun came out. Will was more than happy to move outside into the sun then; it was much better than being cooped up in the shop, with the rain and hail coming down on the old tin roof and making a terrible racket inside.

The warm, heavy smell of rain was still hanging in the air around him. He liked it—it was familiar and comforting. And after spending all winter cooped up in the house, spring was more than welcome.

Ducks wandered back and forth around his feet, clucking gently and coming to him looking for handouts. He reached down absently to run his fingers over the backs and heads of the birds as they went. There were a lot more of them now—twelve ducks, living in the little duck shed he'd built for them and the shallow pond that he and Djaq dug one summer—and two of them had little groups of fluffy, downy yellow ducklings. They were going to have to sell them or give them away once they were grown. Beyond the duck shed, back against the side of the woodshop, was the garden, full of rows of vegetables coming up as the first little green tufty shoots in the ground and fine netting held up over them on wooden stakes to keep the birds away.

Once, many, many years ago, he and Luke had run around in this garden as children, kicking a ball around with their father and Allan and little John Little, and some of the other neighbourhood boys. Even though it was the same house, the same physical place, that world was so far away and strange—a different time, a different place, a whole other _universe_ than the one he lived in now.

This one, this life, was different—not bad, or better, just… _different._ He didn't know what he _had,_ if anything, expected his life to be like by now, but he was fairly sure he hadn't anticipated this life. He hadn't expected the world to be upended and completely shaken by a world war, or losing his father and being forced to separate from his little brother; he definitely hadn't expected somebody like Djaq to come into his life, or being married before he was twenty-two.

But that was life—things changed, and he adapted to the changes in the world.

He put the half-carved block of wood down on the stool next to him and just sat there relaxing in the sunny late April afternoon. He got so comfortable there that he didn't even want to get up and go inside for something to eat, even though he was hungry.

He absently flicked his thumb across the ring on his finger. When he did more messy work, when he knew that he was going to get his hands very messy, he would take his wedding ring off so he wouldn't lose it or ruin it, but today he didn't need to. Carving wasn't particularly rough work.

Married.

He chuckled quietly to himself as he remembered his aunt and brother's surprise when they finally got around to telling them about the marriage, some time after it had happened. Luke had been overjoyed that Djaq was now his sister, but only after he laughed for a solid ten minutes about the whole affair—and Lukey, he was going to be in lower sixth form next school year, finishing up at school. He didn't quite sure what he wanted to do with his life beyond school—he said he wanted to take a gap year to work out what he wanted to do, perhaps in Scarborough, perhaps Nottingham with them, or maybe elsewhere.

As for Auntie Annie… she, was at first, a little bit perturbed that she hadn't been invited to the wedding and that they made so little fuss about the wedding, but was in all just happy for them. Their general attitude was: _finally._ It was as if everybody else knew it was coming.

"Why didn't you _wait?"_ The woman had sighed in frustration at having not been invited to their last-minute nuptials. "You could have planned a proper wedding—I'd have helped!"

"But, Auntie… neither of us fancied a big wedding. Could you _really_ see me or Djaq doing something like that?"

"Well…"

"And she was afraid that if we waited any longer, we wouldn't get married at all."

It was impossible for even Auntie Annie to argue with that assertion.

And then they'd almost had to _fight_ with her to keep her from running out and getting them a belated wedding gift. They didn't want anything—they didn't _need_ anything—and, eventually, she reluctantly gave in and stopped trying to do it.

It had been nearly a year, but not a great deal had changed between himself and Djaq—every once in a while, he woke up and actually _forgot_ that they were married. They'd been living together for so long now that there was no awkward period of adjustment during which they got used to living together, no nasty surprises when they learned each other's funny little habits, no shifting belongings from one house to another, and none of the troubles that most other married couples had to work through for their first months of marriage. They'd sorted all of _that_ out years ago when she first moved out of Robin's house and in with him.

Since they didn't make a big deal about their wedding, few people knew about it at first; as the time passed, the rest of the people in Nottingham found out through the grapevine about their marriage and for months they were bumping into people who congratulated them. It was sort of… sweet to find out how many people cared about them.

And then people became surprisingly, embarrassingly, almost _appallingly,_ nosy. People who knew them better, their close friends and family, didn't talk about such things, but other people felt the need to pry into their private business and ask about things that were really quite personal. People got quite smarmy and asked them when—always 'when' not 'if'—they were having children, asking if they were going to 'hear the pitter-patter of little feet' anytime soon. They became experts at dodging the question and swiftly changing the subject.

That wasn't all people were asking about. They also asked odd questions about rather more _personal_ matters. Like their sex lives.

It was still surprising that, now that they were married, people felt that it was somehow all right to broach these subjects with them and pry so much. For a long time, Will became very embarrassed, his whole face turning red as he tried to stutter around an answer without revealing too much. Now he just ignored the people who tried to pry.

Other things had changed in the past year, as well.

Allan moved out of the house about a month after they married, still feeling a little awkward about living with them, no matter how much they told him that he was welcome in their house. He said that he wanted to give them their space, so he moved into a flat on the other side of town. He wasn't too terribly far away from them, and stopped by often—"Because I can't let you have _too much_ alone time!" His friend couldn't afford to live by himself, so he rented the place along with a flatmate that none of them, Allan included, knew terribly much about.

It still felt strange having him out of the house—it was quieter, and there was nobody for Djaq to argue with. They didn't see him every day, didn't wake up to find him in his underwear at the kitchen table with a cup of tea. There were just the two of them, him and Djaq, in the house by themselves.

That had a certain appealing ring to it, though. _Just the two of them._

Will discovered he'd been absently flicking away at the sole of his boot with his knife while he'd been thinking, and now there was a sizeable knick in the bottom. He quickly put his foot down on the ground and stabbed the tip of his knife into the wooden stool next to him alongside the block of wood.

Now he was hungry enough to extricate himself from his comfortable seat by the shop and stand up. He brushed the small pile of wood shavings out of his lap as he did so as not to track the mess into the house; he carefully trotted around the ducks and ducklings in his path on his way to the back door and headed into the house. He toed off his boots and walked into the kitchen, and almost keeled over in surprise when he found Allan sitting at the kitchen table with an open and half-empty bottle of beer and the evening edition of the newspaper.

He stopped dead in his tracks in the doorway between the kitchen and back hall.

"What the hell?"

He looked up casually. "Oh, hi," he said. "I was wondering when you'd come back in."

"Yeah, well… why are you… in the house?"

"I'm housetrained. And anyway, thought you said I could come by any time."

"Not without, you know, _warning me_ first!" He gasped.

One of Allan's rather odd habits was walking into the house without knocking, sometimes without even announcing himself. It was still a bit of a shock to come downstairs or inside and find him reading their newspaper or listening to their radio in the big comfy chair. They didn't mind that their friend dropped by unannounced, but they didn't like that he just barged in and asked him to stop doing it. But he still did it sometimes.

"That our newspaper, as well?" He asked, arms crossed as he leaned back against the corner cabinets.

"Maybe."

"I've _got_ to start locking that door," he sighed to himself.

"Why, what's wrong? Not happy to see your old mate?"

"It's just that when you habitually leave the front door unlocked, anybody in the world could just walk right in and sit down. It might be somebody weird, and _oh, look,_ it is!"

Allan laughed.

"I was finished with work early today, so thought I'd come by and see you."

"Uh-huh. Why not just go back to your own flat?"

"I hate my flatmate."

There wasn't really anything he could say to that, so he didn't. He didn't know a lot about Allan's flatmate, a severe and depressing and brooding man called Guy who kept to himself and dressed mostly in black, except that his friend didn't particularly like him. He tried to avoid being home when he knew Guy would be there, which in fact wasn't often because he travelled a lot for work.

And even still, Allan felt better about living outside of their house.

Instead of talking, Will went rifling through the cupboards for something to make a sandwich with. It was nearing the end of the week, so they were running low on food until they could buy their next week's rations—leftovers had already been picked clean and everything. He settled for peanut butter and honey.

His friend sat watching him while he made something to eat; he could feel him staring as he closed up the jar of peanut butter and dropped the knife into the sink.

"What?" He asked just as he was about to take a bite of his sandwich.

"I wouldn't mind a bite to eat, you know," he said.

Will stepped to the side, away from the refrigerator door. "So get something—you know where everything is."

"You're not gonna offer me anything?"

"No. Why should I?"

"I'm a guest."

He snorted. "You don't count."

"Why not?"

"You used to live here—you practically _do_ still live here. You don't count as a guest. If you want something, then get it. You know where it is. Just try not to finish up the rest of our food, all right? What we have has to last until Monday when we can get our new rations."

But Allan declined the offer and went back to his drink and the paper. Will sat down across from him with his sandwich and a bottle of milk from the icebox. He didn't bother with a glass; he hardly ever did. Both he and Djaq frequently drank straight from containers without caring about it, unless one of them was ill.

They read and ate in quiet, the only sounds around them being the ones drifting in through the open windows, and the rustle of paper when he turned a page.

Since working with the local paper, Will noticed that his friend was taking more and more interest in news affairs and the national papers. It seemed a little funny—Allan had always been such a young-at-heart type of person, even as they grew up into adults, and even still after he fought in the war and he came home having witnessed those horrors. It was his way of combating the real world. It used to be that the only reason he read a newspaper at all was to read the funnies pages or the occasional amusing news story about violently fracturing water closets. These days he actually _read_ the paper, properly.

And because of this, he sometimes knew about things before they did. And sometimes it strayed into rather more dismaying territory.

He vividly remembered some weeks ago when Allan came bursting into the house—without knocking, while they were in their pajamas at the kitchen table eating breakfast—to show them a photo in the newspaper, of appallingly, frighteningly skeletal people, shadows of human beings, that had been rescued from Nazi prison camps. That was a truly frightening thing, seeing the bodies of dead prisoners, and in the final stages of emaciation, piled up in a room and covered in lime.

That, too, brought the war right back into the forefront of their lives, as the _living_ prisoners were rescued and sent to hospitals and seen to by doctors wherever the Allies could manage. Some of them had been captives for years—they, too, looked like walking skeletons, the skin hanging over their bones, their eyes hollow. Stories came in about the rescued prisoners, starved for so long of the basic necessities, gorging themselves to death on food.

It was absolutely unfathomable how _anybody_ could rationalize doing something like this to human beings. It just… didn't bear thought. There was no reason for it, no excuse, absolutely no justification for any of it. These were people who _hated_ others simply for being alive. There were no words in the English language—or, he imagined, in any other language on the planet—to adequately express how evil the perpetrators of these crimes were. It was simply… pure evil.

He tried his best not to think about it. It made him too upset, too angry. Even though there was nothing that he, a young cabinetmaker from a little shire in England, could have done to prevent it or to remedy the situation, but it still made his blood boil with rage and his hands tremble as he clenched his fists—angry that something like this had even happened to begin with.

The oddest thing about the whole affair was Djaq; she was _always_ bizarre and unusual. Whenever they thought they had her figured, she went and shocked them yet again. Despite all of this, she was somewhat defensive of the German people—because they, as a general population, hadn't done anything.

"It is cruel and unwarranted to condemn an entire people, simply because they share a nationality or a birthplace with a few crazy, sick men," she'd said, in an astoundingly calm tone of voice. "I will not say that they did or didn't know what was going on, because I have not seen enough information yet, but we cannot so quickly assume that all of them, everywhere, are monsters. The people who did this, condoned it, and ordered these things done—_they_ are the monsters."

Her reaction surprised him, surprised both of them—it shouldn't have, because by now he should have known to expect such things of Djaq, and yet he found himself completely shocked at her position.

But then, he knew that she'd experienced a certain degree of prejudice herself in the past. Certainly not on that level, not the degree to which people maintained a firmly anti-German sentiment, but she _had_ experienced it. She wasn't the type to turn around and do to others exactly the same things that had happened, however long ago, to her.

That was all a part of why he so loved her.

"D'you just vacate your brain or something?" Allan asked.

"Whuh?"

"You just _sit there_ staring off into space!"

"Oh."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"What was that all about?"

"I was just thinking."

"About…?"

"None of your business," he said, kicking him under the table.

Allan just shrugged.

They were quiet again, eating and reading and in their own thoughts.

"Holy crap!" Allan suddenly leaped out of his seat upon yelling, and slammed the paper down on the table, which startled poor Will terribly and jolted him back into reality and made him almost fall on the floor.

"What? _What?"_ He asked quickly, grappling for the paper and trying to figure out what it is that caused such a reaction in his friend. "What's wrong?"

"Oh my _god!"_

"What _happened?"_ Will demanded. His friend frequently turned the newspaper inside out, making it difficult for the next person to read, and because of this he couldn't figure out what Allan had been reading before.

"Holy cow—they shot Mussolini!"

"I thought he was already dead. Didn't they get him a few days ago?"

"No, no—they _found_ him trying to leave the country. They shot him yesterday—here, read this," he ordered, doing some sort of complicated origami with the newspaper and magically turning it right-side-out again in one quick movement. He pointed to the article in question, under the headline _Mussolini and Mistress Shot; fifteen other officials of the Italian Social Republic also executed in Guilino di Mezzegra._ They'd been captured trying to flee to Switzerland, the article said, to board a plane bound for Spain.

"Geez…" he sighed, plopping himself back down into his chair after finishing the reading. Italy had been out of the war for some time now, so it was perhaps a little strange to hear about the Italian leader's demise _now._ By his own people, no less.

All of this combined with recent news of the fighting reaching Germany and Allied forces closing in on Berlin; after a long stalemate, and less than a year after the invasion of Normandy, everything seemed to have turned completely around. The unstoppable German Army was no long unstoppable. It was _mortal._ He knew better than to think anything was for certain—they _all_ knew better than that, after living with the turbulent ups and downs of the war for years—but it was _really_ beginning to seem like things were heading to an end.

"That's something, isn't it?" Allan asked rhetorically.

"Mm-hmm."

"It's like… like this might all end soon."

"Maybe."

"You _could_ be a little more optimistic."

"You know as well as I do that things have come close before, only to go back again," he said, voicing his previous thoughts out loud.

"Learned pessimism?"

"You could call it that."

"Well, _you_ can think what you want, but I wanna pretend it'll all work out."

Will just shrugged, eating the last of his sandwich and carrying the plate over to the sink to clean it off. "That's fine."

"Oh, come on, mate—cheer up!" He said, coming up to stand beside him and leaning back against the counter next to the sink so he faced him.

"I'm cautiously optimistic, all right?" He conceded.

"I guess that's better than nothing."

Will didn't answer, turning his attention back to his dishes while Allan munched an apricot he took out of the fruit bowl.

When he was finished cleaning off his plate, he asked him, "Could you pass me that dish towel over there, please?"

But instead of complying, Allan quickly wound the towel and snapped it at his backside.

"Hey!" He howled, quickly depositing the dish in the sink and rubbing the stinging spot with his hand. He turned to his friend with an angry glare and found him laughing hysterically, clutching his stomach with one arm and using the other to support himself against the counter top.

"You should've seen yourself! You looked like you were going to jump out of your socks!"

"You _snapped_ my _butt!"_

"I know!" He howled with laughter.

In response to this, Will snatched the towel from his hands and started twirling it.

Allan was quick to stop laughing and adopt a defensive position. "Hey, stop that!" He warned. "Not the face!" He winced and put up his hands as Will switched his arm to snap the towel close to his friend's cheek.

"You did it to me."

"Yeah, on your fully-clothed and well-padded backside! Not on your _face!"_

"Wimp." He tossed the towel at him, and then roughly rumpled his hair. When they were younger, actually it was none too long ago, Allan had been the taller of the two of them—as they grew older, Will quickly caught up with and then passed his friend in height.

Just like old times, this quickly degenerated into horseplay. They rattled around the kitchen like a couple of adolescent boys having a play fight. They bumped the table and chairs, hit one another against the bottom cabinets, the oven, the icebox, and the walls. If Djaq was here, she'd probably be telling them to stop, or maybe she'd be laughing at them as she watched them fight.

Eventually, after thrashing each other around on the floor a bit, Will managed to get the upper hand, and then proceeded to get back up and finish washing up his dirty dishes—while standing on Allan's back.

"Geez, mate, could you kinda _not_ stand on my kidneys like that—_ouch!"_ He winced as Will deliberately shifted his feet on his back. "The least you could do is drop the newspaper or something down here so I can have something to read while you're up there playing housekeeper."

Will leaned over to the table and grabbed the paper and dropped it on his head, then went back to his dishes and ignored his whinging.

The front door slammed open and closed again and light footsteps came around the front hall, through the living room, and then Djaq appeared in the kitchen doorway. She was still dressed in her work clothes, a blouse and knee-length skirt, with her light coat slung over her arm; she was also wearing her trainers and carrying her black work shoes in her hand. She was looking a little tired, a little pale.

"Hello, boys," she said casually. She sounded a little bit congested. "Have I missed something?"

"Djaq, help me," Allan gasped from the floor, pulling his head up as far as he could.

"I don't know, it looks like Will has everything under control." She folded her coat over the back of one of the chairs and put her shoes down by the door. She walked up to Will, stopping to stand along with him on her friend's back so she could stand high enough on her toes and give her husband a peck on the cheek.

"I'm not bein' funny but… you guys… are gonna break my ribs."

"Stop whinging, you sissy," she told him, nudging his head with her foot before going to one of the cabinets and rifling through it.

"What're you looking for?" Will asked, putting the last of the cleaned dishes in the basket next to the sink.

"Aspirin. I am not feeling very well."

"Are you all right?"

"You ask _her_ if she's all right?" Allan growled. "She isn't the one bearing the weight of an entire cabinetmaker! On my _back!"_

Will stepped off of him; he immediately sat up and rubbed his back with a wince.

"Could you get me a few of those aspirin while you're in there? I have this inexplicable pain in my back…"

She stood over him and dropped the bottle on his head; he caught it as it bounced off.

"Hey! Do I just exist for the two of you to abuse?"

But Will wasn't paying attention to him—instead, he noticed that Djaq was looking a little bit put off but something.

"Is something wrong?" He asked her.

She shook her head as she swallowed her pills. "I just think I might be getting a bit of a cold, that is all."

"Uh-huh," he said slowly, crossing his arms. "Then why do you look like you're about ready to chew somebody's head off?" He knew from her subtle change in expression that he'd gotten to something.

"Oh, it's just that _every_ symptom of _every_ illness in the entire world, when found in a woman who happens to be married, automatically means that she is pregnant," she sighed exasperatedly, adopting a sarcastically cheerful expression and beginning a conversation with herself. "There can never be another explanation! Hm, I feel a bit queasy—you must be pregnant! I'm tired—you're pregnant! Headache or backache? _Pregnant!_ Spots, swollen glands, diphtheria, leprosy, limb loss—_pregnant, dammit!"_ She slammed her glass down on the counter top so hard she actually picked it back up again to inspect it for cracks.

"People really _do_ that?" Allan asked as he pulled himself to his feet. "I mean, they feel like it's their duty to pry into your… affairs?" He phrased it delicately.

"You would be surprised," she sighed.

"People feel like it's their business," Will said.

"Geez." He scratched his head. "Some people, eh?"

She growled. "Yes."

"Can't you just tell them to stay off of your back?"

"I have tried, but some people simply will not listen."

Allan was frowning. "Have you tried… I dunno, you could do something sneaky and underhanded about it."

"Such as?"

"The next time somebody brings it up, you could work up some crocodile tears and break down and sob about being tragically barren and bringing the subject up just makes you so very, very sad." He leaned back and pressed the back of his hand to his forehead in an overly dramatic gesture that made her giggle.

Their friend knew of Djaq's old past injury and subsequent inability to bear children—after they were married, they felt it was probably a good idea to let on to the people closest to them that no children should be expected from this union, and the reason for it. It just didn't seem fair to keep something like this a secret from them, particularly from Auntie Annie, who would otherwise have probably anticipated some great-nieces or –nephews. Allan wasn't much bothered by it, and surprised them by revealing that he'd guessed that something was going on to make them suspiciously un-childed. Luke was unexpectedly saddened by this revelation, apparently hoping that his brother and Djaq would have kids one day, and even his Auntie had merely sighed, and then told his little brother that it was up to _him_ to produce some children for her to spoil.

"And try to give me nieces," she'd told him then. "I'm getting tired of boys!"

Allan's suggestion sounded, to Will, a little bit devious and deceitful. Especially when their inability to reproduce, in reality, made them much happier.

He spoke first. "Allan, that's _stupid."_

"Actually, I _have_ thought of doing just that," she admitted. "It would get everybody to stop talking to me about it, at the very least." She turned away from them to stifle a sneeze in the crook of her elbow.

"Bless you," they both said at the same time.

"Why don't you go up to bed?" Will suggested.

"Sex, sex, sex—is that all you ever think about?" She feigned annoyance, but she was grinning widely.

"Go to bed," he ordered, turning her around by her shoulders and marching her through the living room to the stairs in the front hall. "If you're getting sick, you'll need your rest."

"This means you are on your own for dinner tonight," she warned as she slowly began to trudge up the stairs. She looked very much like she was running on fumes.

"I'm not _completely_ helpless, you know," he sighed. "I _can_ feed myself."

"Of course," she said, though she didn't sound wholly convinced.

He smiled and smoothed a hand down her hair, finding it difficult to avoid the impulse to kiss her. He settled for patting her backside as she went up the stairs. "Go to bed."

o…o

She hadn't felt terribly well on Friday when she went to work, and when she came home she felt even worse; after she came home and Will told her to go and get some rest, she did exactly that and after that she'd spent more or less the entire weekend and all the way into the week in bed asleep.

Being sick made her tired all the time; her head ached, her body felt stiff and sore, her head was clogged, and she was briefly running a temperature. Mostly she just stayed in bed, only very occasionally venturing downstairs and plopping herself on the sofa near the big radio to absently listen to one of the daytime dramatic programmes that she _still_ didn't like but that at least sometimes kept her mind off of being sick.

The most energy she'd expended the whole time she stayed in bed was on Sunday afternoon when Allan brought her some tea in her room, jokingly wearing his old civilian-grade gas mask to 'protect himself from the germs'—then she'd laughed herself to tears. But other than that, she couldn't be bothered to do much of anything.

She _knew_ she was sick when she couldn't even find it in herself to react to the news that Hitler had died.

When she had finally stumbled downstairs for the first time in days, in a profoundly zombie-like state, sometime around mid-morning, she found Will sitting in the old chair by the radio, holding the newspaper tightly in one hand frantically searching for some particular radio station with the other.

"What's wrong?" She'd asked groggily, covering her huge yawn with her hand, tucked inside the sleeve of a too-big shirt. She hadn't expected him to be indoors—she thought that he had things to do.

He hadn't taken his attention away from the radio; she tried to tilt her head to read what, if anything, a headline of the paper said, but she couldn't make out anything through her own blurry vision and his hand clutching the paper.

"Will?"

"Hitler's dead."

Pause.

"Oh," was her only reaction. She hadn't even had the energy to bother getting excited about this, even though it was a monumentally _huge_ event in the war. "I am going to get some more aspirin and then I am going back to bed."

It was three more days before she felt moderately human enough to rejoin the living.

By now she was properly amazed at the events that had been happening for the last few days—the death of Adolf Hitler, the surrender of Berlin, and the conquered territories liberated from Nazi control. The strongest and most dangerous player in the war was slowly being squashed after all these years.

The enthusiasm she felt seemed at odds with the feelings she'd adopted towards the war, which were feelings of dread and fear and terrible unease. She always _hated_ it whenever something happened that brought the war into the forefront of their minds, when she could think of nothing else for days or weeks. But now it was weirdly, bizarrely _good_ to think of the things that had been going on.

A teensy, tiny little bud of hope began to blossom within her. Maybe, just _maybe,_ this was a sign that this whole conflict would soon be ending.

She put on overalls for the first time in _ages,_ wearing them as she used to when she felt sloppy or that she wanted to be comfortable—unfastened and with the bib and back hanging loose around her knees—along with one of Will's t-shirts over her vest. She plodded down the stairs in her woolly socks and shuffled into the kitchen.

He was in there eating lunch and reading a book. When he heard her coming, he looked up and smiled warmly.

"Look who's up."

"Morning," she said upon entering the kitchen.

"Afternoon," he corrected.

"Whatever."

"How're you feeling?"

"Slightly less dead."

He was already up and around the kitchen, getting her some bread and a bowl of soup, and Djaq couldn't help but smile to herself. He'd been taking good care of her while she'd been sick, coming in from work between jobs to check up on her and make sure she was eating and getting enough to drink, and bringing her aspirin to keep her fever down. She'd offered to leave their bedroom and sleep in one of the spare rooms so that he wouldn't get sick; he'd declined her offer and instead slept in one of the spare rooms _himself._

While she was sick, he took care of her ducks and her garden for her in addition to his regular work and looking after her. Will must have been the sweetest man alive.

She took the offered bowl—chicken soup, with rice and carrots and potatoes. It was all he'd been feeding her for days, but she wasn't tired of it. This was the first time she'd willingly eaten more than dry crackers or toast in a long time.

She was careful to eat slowly so as not to make herself sick. Will didn't go back to his book or his own lunch; instead, he studied her carefully, looking for any signs of discomfort or illness, and then simply watching her with a gentle smile and a dreamy expression.

This she found rather odd.

"What?" She asked around a mouthful of bread.

He was smiling. "Nothing."

She raised her eyebrows.

"You," he began, leaning across the table and placing his hand on her cheek. "Are beautiful."

Eyebrows went higher. "I am as sick as a dog, I have not had a shower in three days, and I am wearing some of _your_ clothes," she shot back.

"I know. And you have bed hair and you look like death warmed over. But you're the loveliest and cleverest and most wonderful woman in the world, and I love you."

That came out of nowhere. It was a bit surprising, but sweet. The corners of her mouth slowly turned upwards into a smile. "Oh, Will…"

He leaned forward, as if to kiss her, but stopped before he got that far. "Can I kiss you?"

"I am still sick, you know. Contaminated. You might catch it."

"I think I'll risk it," he told her, closing that distance between them and kissing her warmly on her forehead, his lips lingering on her skin.

She put her hand over the one cupping her cheek. "I love you, too," she murmured.

He kissed her one last time, a slow and gentle kiss on her temple, and nuzzled her cheek softly. She sighed—he was impossibly dear. Time and again she wondered how she'd gotten this lucky, what she did to deserve him. She clutched his hand and smiled.

And then had to back away quickly to smother a sneeze in her arm.

Damn.

She finished her soup and had most of a second bowl before she was finished with her meal; he stayed at the table instead of going back to the woodshop where he undoubtedly had work still to do, keeping her company and refilling her bowl or her water glass when she needed it. She finished her first bowl of soup and most of a second one before she was finished.

She decided to go outside and throw some scraps of old bread to her ducks and have a look around he vegetable garden, since she hadn't been outside in days and she thought the cool fresh air of early May might do her some good. It would probably be beneficial for her to do something _other_ than sit about in bed like she had been.

It was nice out—not too cloudy, not too sunny—and she felt contentedly relaxed. There was a light breeze, ruffling her bed-rumpled hair and making her amusingly overlarge shirt flutter around her body. Her congested head was finally starting to clear and she took a deep breath of spring air, and the smells of greenery and plants and that particular smell of English rain wafted into her nose. It was nice after being ill and cooped up inside for so many days.

Will was still watching her carefully—he was sitting on his stool outside while he worked, enjoying the mild weather and keeping an eye on her like she was a young child. She picked a spot in the sun to sit while she threw scraps to the ducks. She picked up one of the ducklings, holding the soft little ball of yellow downy feathers in her hands and listening to the little cheeping noises while the parents and the rest of the ducklings wandered around her feet; she tilted her head back and let the sun warm her face.

She put the duckling back down on the ground and watched as the entire little family wandered over to the pond for a swim, then turned around the corner of the shop and looked in through the door to see him as he worked.

"What are you working on over there?" She asked.

"A rocking chair," he said. "I know, exciting."

She got up and walked over, and he stopped and looked up at her as she leaned sideways into the doorway. "What happened to that Noah's Ark you were making?"

"It had a population explosion."

She giggled. He'd gotten a little carried away with that commission because it was fun for him to do. The last time she checked, there were elephants, camels, sheep, dogs, cats, horses, bears, rabbits, cattle, alligators, and giraffes. There were more little wooden animals than he could fit into the ark, so he had to make a _new_ one big enough to fit them all, along with the little Noah-and-Mrs-Noah figurines, as well.

"What else did you add?"

"Lions and pigs."

"Isn't there supposed to be a dove with an olive branch?"

Pause. He was squinting in deep thought for a few moments.

"You're right—damn it!"

She laughed again; he was smiling.

She kept him company in the shop for a while longer, but eventually she grew tired again. It seemed that she'd expended more energy than she realized in coming downstairs, eating, and coming outside for a bit; Will ordered her back up to bed, turning her out of the woodshop with a stern hand, and back into the house she went. She didn't even make it up the stairs—by the time she got back into the house and around through the living room, she was feeling so exhausted that she made right for the sofa to fall asleep.

Over the next several days, she slowly recovered from her cold, and by the beginning of the week she was finally feeling like herself again.

The early May morning dawned misty and cool, a light fog on the ground from rain that'd lasted some days. But by now it was pleasant—and she didn't want to drag herself out of bed. She was too comfy, too happy here, and didn't want it to end.

The bedroom windows were all open and sunlight and spring air poured into the room. Even in May, the morning air had the littlest bit of a nip to it, settling around them and making Djaq shiver slightly as she pulled at the blankets. She tugged on them, trying to wrestle them out from underneath her sleeping husband—and he _was_ her husband now; even a year later, she had to keep reminding herself of that fact—but he was being a bit of a cover hog. She wrapped herself in as much of the blanket as she could manage and snuggled up close to him, body tightly knit with body. He purred quietly in his sleep, tightening his grip protectively around her.

It was nice.

After being sick for such a long time, and having Will sleeping in another room, it felt good to be snuggling down warm and comfy with him in the bed. Her illness, whatever it'd been, was finally gone and fortunately Will hadn't caught it. They spent the previous night making up for the lost time. Repeatedly.

It was most definitely fairly late, but she couldn't see the bedside clock from this angle and didn't feel like moving to check—she knew she had to get moving but she couldn't find it in herself to care. Instead, she just let herself doze there with him, not really caring that she was about to make herself late for work. She was perfectly content to stay in bed, listening to his soft and steady breathing and the occasional gentle snore. She loved the feel of him there, warm and steady behind her, his bare chest against her back, and his leg and arm slung around her to hold her tightly against him.

This was what she loved best—this morning peace, this comfort; not necessarily _doing_ anything, just _being_ with him. When he moved, rolled just ever so slightly, he was partially on top of her and gently crushing her under his weight, his arm around her chest. She shifted, too, flattening herself onto her stomach so he wasn't squashing her.

She realized that he was awake when he began to flex his hand on her, softly walking his fingers up line of her back and grazing the side of her breast. He hugged her even closer, dipping low and kissing the side of her neck.

Her eyes slowly slid closed again. She tilted her head to expose her neck and let him plant kisses all the way down and to her throat, and she sighed pleasantly. His grip loosened and she shifted, rolling to face him as he held himself up over her.

He kissed her forehead and her cheeks to tease her a bit before he finally stopped and came to kiss her properly on the lips. She hummed softly as she responded with her own kisses, curling her arm up underneath his arm and cupping the back of his shoulder.

"Do we _really_ have to get out of bed?" She breathed.

He smiled against her neck. "Not if we don't want to. We're adults." He nuzzled her shoulder and gently bit down on her collarbone; she inhaled sharply and then let out a little squeak. He was making it _oh_ so very difficult to motivate out of bed. All she wanted to do now was just stay there with him all day.

"I have to get to work," she pointed out, trying to get him to stop. It didn't work.

"I know."

"We should get moving."

"We _should._ But I don't want to—do you?"

Pause.

"No—but we _have_ to…"

He settled back down with her, refusing to let her get up.

She sighed. "I am already late," she rationalized. "Another fifteen minutes won't make a difference."

Except that they fell back asleep again, and lost track of time.

"Well, 'ello, 'ello."

The drawling voice came from the doorway and woke her up. Her blurry vision cleared as she came out from a sound sleep, and she saw the silhouette of a man standing in the bedroom doorway.

Allan.

"Looks like I'm a bit _past_ the point of _interrupting _something," he teased. He looked amused and entirely unembarrassed at being there in their house—in their _bedroom—_with nothing but the thin blankets between them and full frontal exposure.

What was he doing there? And why didn't he just realize he was being obnoxious and leave?

"What's that?" Will looked over her shoulder and squinted at the door.

"Something irritating," she groaned softly and then rubbed her eyes with one hand.

"Oh."

"Maybe if we ignore it, it will go away," she suggested, turning away from the door and putting the blankets over her head.

"Sounds like a good idea."

"How did he get in here, anyway? I thought you started locking the front door."

"I _did."_

"So then how do you explain _that?"_ She gestured vaguely in the direction of the door.

He frowned. "Yeah—how _did_ you get in here, Allan?"

"I used the key on top of the back door," he said. "You guys really oughtta find a better place to hide that thing. It's sort of an obvious place and _anybody_ could walk in here.

Neither of them knew whether or not he realized what he'd just said, but it was funny one way or another. Or it _would_ have been funny if the situation had been a little bit different.

Djaq growled and pulled a pillow over her head.

"Maybe we should look into getting an attack dog," Will suggested as he slowly sat up, careful to rearrange the blankets around himself and Djaq to keep them decently covered.

"Or a new friend."

"Oh, come on, now. You've hurt my feelings," Allan whined, sticking his lower lip out in a mock-pout.

"Good! Get out!"

"Ask him why he's here," she said without taking her head out from under her pillow. She wasn't even sure if anybody heard her until the pillow was forcibly pulled off of her.

"He says he was worried about us. We've been classified as 'missing in action' by the people who see us daily."

"'Missing in action'? What?" She craned her neck to try to see the clock.

"It's after eleven."

"_What?"_

She sat upright very quickly, forgetting briefly her state of undress and the presence of an audience. Will swiftly pulled part of the blanket up to cover her chest, but not before Allan whistled cheekily.

"Stop that!"

He was laughing now as he stood there. "I should've known where the two of you would have been if you'd decided to spend the day… _abed."_

"We _have_ actually been sleeping," she retorted.

"Why am I disinclined to believe that?"

"Out!" She demanded, pointing at the door.

He left sulkily, like a scolded dog, pulling the door closed behind him.

Of course, now they were fully awake and couldn't go back to sleep, so they reluctantly got out of bed and dressed themselves, looking through yesterday's discarded clothing and pulling on rumpled jeans and shirts.

When they came downstairs, they were surprised to see that their friend was _still there,_ sitting at the kitchen table like he still lived there. He was always doing things like that, walking in without knocking and sitting around the house like he was still living here.

She crossed her arms and tapped her bare foot on the tiled floor, demanding, "Why are you still here?"

"I sense a certain hostility," he remarked cheerfully.

"Good."

"Really, Allan, it's bad enough that Djaq and I have missed half a day's work—why aren't _you_ at work, as well?"

"Nobody's at work, mate."

Pause.

"Why?"

"Oh, hadn't you heard? Germany surrendered. The whole country's at a standstill."

He said it so casually, like it was nothing but a passing observation about daily life. But Djaq felt her mouth fall open as soon as her mind processed the words.

Germany surrendered.

_Surrendered!_

"When was this?" She asked, planting her hands on the table and leaning over to look at him, her eyes wide and her surprise written clearly in her face.

"I heard it was about the middle of the night here when the unconditional surrender went through."

"So you mean… it's over?" Will asked. He looked as shocked as she felt.

Nod. "Ceasefire goes through tonight."

"It's _over?"_

"Yes!"

Will plunked down into the nearest chair; she stayed riveted to the spot, completely stunned and amazed at this news. Since that day in September six years ago, since the day the war began, they'd all been hoping and wishing and _waiting_ for this day. It was too good to be true—she was _almost_ unwilling to believe that this was really happening. After all, how could she—how could _anybody—_be expected to simply accept this? It wasn't going to be a quick change into this… this _peace,_ much in the same way that they had to slowly transition _into_ the war when it all began.

It was incredible.

What was going to happen now? What was next? For so long, the only thing they knew, the only thing they could imagine, was _war._ How were they going to learn how to live a normal life without it?

She tried to collect her thoughts, but she couldn't manage it. A mess of jumbled, half-baked notions slipped in and out of her head, swift and fleeting and too fast for her to get a hold of any. There were no words in her mind, nothing coherent and nothing to decipher. All there was left was _feeling._ An incredible relief. A certain uneasy optimism, knowing that things could easily change again. Happiness. Worry. Fear.

And all of it was so very overwhelming, the relief and fear and happiness all falling on her like a ton of bricks.

"Djaq!"

She had absolutely no idea what'd just happened happened. Why was Will holding her up, and why did Allan look worried? Her legs felt rubbery underneath her, and she felt dizzy, and blood rushed in her ears.

"Are you all right?"

Her words came slowly. "What happened?"

"You fell down!"

"Fell?"

Will hefted her in his arms, turning her around so she was sitting limply in the chair.

"You don't seem like the fainting type," Allan observed as he handed her a glass of water.

"She didn't faint—she just fell down."

Nobody was in the mood for their usual banter or arguing. Even though the news was happy and welcome, the atmosphere in their little kitchen was intense. Her boys were kneeling on the floor before her, looking worried, but she knew that she wasn't the most prominent thought in their minds at the moment.

But she could hardly blame them. It was so overwhelming—their hopes and dreams of an end to the war couldn't possibly have prepared them for the reality of it.

If the future had seemed so unsure all throughout the war, it actually seemed even stranger and more uncertain now. After all, they had all learned to live with the war in their lives, always on the fringes of their awareness. The prospect of such a radical change occurring in their lives again was daunting—almost like it would be harder for them to grow used to living in peacetime than it was to adapt to wartime in the first place.

She lurched forward then and hugged them both, her trembling arms fastened around their necks and her face buried in a shoulder—she didn't know or care whose. They hugged her back, the sound of slow and laboured breathing in her ears as she held onto them. All of those overpoweringly intense emotions all boiled over in her chest, and with the next breath she exhaled, tears came with it as she—as _all_ of them—began to cry.

o…o

"_My dear friends, this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class; it's a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, on this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny. After a while, we were left all alone against the most tremendous military power that has ever been seen. We were all alone for a whole year. (…) Now we have emerged from one deadly struggle—a terrible foe has been cast down and awaits our judgment, and our mercy."_

—_Winston Churchill, to the V-E Day crowds in London on 8 May, 1945._

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

The war is over! I had originally planned to make a huge celebration out of this chapter, but when I wrote that last part I decided that it was a better ending, so I left it at that. I hope it doesn't disappoint! The end bit is from the speech by Winston Churchill to the crowds on V-E Day—I don't own it. I'm also sorry to have to say that this story is growing to a close within the next chapter. It's been so much fun writing and exploring a new time period, I almost don't want to let it end—but I can't stretch this story out further than it can go.

I hope you enjoyed this chapter—feedback is, as always, much appreciated but not demanded.


	20. August, 1945

I hate to say it—I really, _really_ hate to say it, but… this is the last chapter of Home Fires. The story ends here. It was incredibly hard to write this chapter, knowing that nothing else would come after it. There was no next part to think about, no new conflicts to resolve, no fluffy moments to work in. It feels strange. I've been working on this story for such a long time—over four months now—and while it feels good to know that I've finished something this long and actually followed through, finishing it once and for all is kind of bittersweet.

Disclaimer: By now you know it, I'm sure; I don't own the Robin Hood cast. A very small portion of this chapter—the part about the 'sound of peace'—is shamelessly ripped from _Goodbye, Farewell, and Amen,_ and I don't own it, either.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**August, 1945**

The summer air was thick and humid from the past rain; patches of clouds floated through the sky, blocking the sun and revealing it again in a sort of airborne peek-a-boo. Now that he was an adult, time always seemed to slow down around this time of year, in the middle of August. When hew was younger, August meant that it was the end of the summer holidays and the last few weeks of freedom before the school year started again. Nowadays, August meant that summer was finally on it's way out, and he only had to put up with the last of the hottest, longest days of the year until fall finally came and offered some relief.

Will never really liked the dead heat of summer; the sticky and sweaty atmosphere, the sun, and the hot air never suited him and he preferred cooler temperatures. And he knew it wasn't even normally terribly hot here in Nottingham, even during the longest and hottest days. This summer just seemed to go exceptionally slowly, dragging on and on and on.

It was no longer possible to keep the war far from their minds, not after what happened in May. It'd been a shock to see Djaq nearly faint at the news—her legs had fallen out from under her and she crumbled to the floor like a bag of cabbages. He couldn't say for certain that he knew what was going through her mind then, but he could guess. They had all lived for so long with the war, and the sudden news that _there was no war in Europe_ was hard to come to terms with. Even while they celebrated, there were still people who looked like they were in a trance. He himself didn't fully believe it until much later, when they went around to Robin and Marian's place to eat dinner and sit around the radio, waiting for the news of the official ceasefire, to go through around midnight.

They'd tried to keep themselves occupied well into that night, distracting themselves with card games and drink and conversation, and idly cycling through radio stations before inevitably coming back to the news station to tensely wait.

But, oh, it had been an agonizingly long few hours. They could have gone out, to kill time at a late-night cinema or taking a walk around the neighbourhood, but they didn't dare be further than earshot from a radio to listen for the next news, in case something happened.

And then, over the crackling static of a distant broadcast, there was the tinny voice of a news announcer, coming from somewhere far away:

"_I am speaking to you from one of the last remaining battle fronts in Europe. Behind me, you can hear the sound of artillery, as the news of Germany's unconditional act of military surrender has yet to reach the troops here. In a few moments, the official ceasefire will be announced and the last of the shelling will stop."_

And then the announcer had stopped talking, and all that was left on the radio was the faint sound of a lot of popping and low rumbles—the sound of artillery, of bombs and guns, transmitted through the radio from Germany. Somebody—he didn't know who—had turned the sound up so that they could hear it.

Will remembered being frightened then, a sudden and brief terror gripping him when he heard the sounds over the radio and heard that they didn't stop right away. Looking back on it, it had probably only been seconds after the announcer went silent, but it had _seemed_ so much longer to him then.

Then… silence. Only the static remained. The shooting had stopped.

The broadcaster went back on again.

"_There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That is the sound of peace."_

They'd cried then—all of them. Even Allan, who always tried to avoid the more serious of emotions; Djaq and Marian, too, who were two of the strongest people he knew. Much was sitting on the floor off to the side, weeping like a little girl and wiping his nose on his shirt sleeves. It even made _Robin_ tear up as he sat, still and stone-faced and unblinking, by the radio.

The next days were full of a carnival-like atmosphere. Nobody was in school, nobody was at work; the whole country, and indeed most of Europe, stopped functioning while they just had massive celebrations for this most welcome of news. Parades welcomed servicemen home from abroad; speeches from the King and Princesses, from Churchill and the American President were broadcast all over radios. All of them thanked those who served, honoured those who had been hurt or killed, and praised the brave civilians who sacrificed so much for so long in the name of the war effort.

The last of the major players in Europe was _gone._ Out of the war. They were… they were free.

By then they had expended all of their shock and disbelief. All that was left was exhaustion, and that incredible sensation of relief.

It was after that that the time began to crawl, and the summer went by unfathomably slowly. Time absolutely _dragged._ They tried to settle back into some semblance of normalcy, but that was impossible; there was no way anybody could simply go through the day and live life while this news surrounded them. It was absolutely impossible not to think about it now, even if they wanted to. And nobody wanted to. They watched and waited and listened with a morbid curiosity.

Even though the war was officially out of Europe and now confined to the Pacific and was safely far away from them, the fact was that there was still a _war_ on. It still felt dangerous, alien. It all became just like those first tentative, uneasy months of the war, and they were once again anxiously devouring every scrap of news or information about it and nervously waiting to hear what was going to happen next. Except that, back then, they'd had a sort of morbid excitement about the whole affair. Now the excitement was because it was almost _over._

So close, and yet so far.

Djaq had mentioned it before, and he was once again realizing how true her words were: there was almost more uncertainty in their lives in peacetime than there was during the war. And while they had to change and adapt and learn how to live _with_ the war in their lives—and the rations that it brought—it would be harder to reverse the process and re-learn how to live without it. It would be unrealistic to expect that they could simply go back and live their lives the way they had before it had all started; they simply weren't the same people now as they were then. For one thing, they were all much older; for another, they, and their lives, and the whole _world_ around them were completely different now than they were six years ago.

Allan had enlisted, gone to war, and come home, and while he seemed for the most part to be the same cheerful, jovial young man that he'd always known and loved, he certainly wasn't exactly the same _boy_ he had been when they were younger; he was more grown-up now, more mature. A _man._ Djaq, too, had grown and matured, from the nervous and shy and suspicious young girl living a masquerade as a boy into the beautiful woman that he so dearly loved.

And he knew that he wasn't the same, himself, either; once upon a time, he was young and idealistic, shy and unsure of himself. The war and everything that came with it—the death of his father, being forced to make his brother leave, the ever-changing world in conflict, the different dynamic between himself and Allan, the changes between himself and Djaq—all forced him to do a lot of growing up, and do it very quickly.

Forced them _all_ to grow up.

The three of them had been little more than children when the war started—fifteen, sixteen, and seventeen years old. They grew up with it, matured with it, and as much as they had hoped for so long for the world to be at peace, now that it was all real, it was hard to imagine how they would live with this newest change.

This, in addition to everything else, dominated their thoughts for a long time.

Today, it was one of those rare and very hot days—where the air was so thick that it had a heavy weight and presence against his skin and his clothes felt uncomfortably stifling and close. It was the kind of day that he found most uncomfortable.

On any normal day, everybody would have been laying about outdoors, reclining on front porches and walking slowly from place to place as they went about their business. Windows in every building were wide open, and office workers would have been occasionally seen hanging out of them to get some fresh air; children out of school for the summer would probably have been taking refuge in the cool atmosphere of the cinema so as to avoid being outside.

If it was any normal day, Will would also have been going about his business as usual—working on his latest project in the shade next to the woodshop, and waiting for Djaq to come home.

But it wasn't a normal day at all. Far from it.

He, Allan, and Djaq sat together, dumbstruck, on the front steps, silently passing an open bottle of whiskey back and forth between them. Even _Djaq_ was drinking, and she never drank. All around them there were even more festivities, more celebratory shouts and joyous revelry, but they had no more energy left for that kind of excitement. With everything that had been happening in their lives since May, it was getting emotionally exhausting to keep getting excited about these things.

And this was something that would have exhausted them _completely_ to become wound up about.

That morning, the Japanese Emperor came over the radio himself, and announced to the world that he and his country and his army surrendered to Allied forces. They were, at first, disinclined to believe that it was really real; another part of living with the war for so many years was that it had caused them to be carefully sceptical of anything that sounded too good to be true. And then Prime Minister Atlee came on the radio later that day and announce that Japan did, indeed, that morning surrender, and that 'the last of our enemies is laid low.'

The war was over.

They should have been in shock, or tearfully happy, or _something,_ but they couldn't manage it. They were just… blank. So much had happened in such a short period of time, and they were collectively tired of expending so much emotion—drained and tired and completely worn out.

So they sat apart from the celebration commemorating what was being dubbed 'V-J Day', keeping away from the parades and confetti and the dancing in the streets, and keeping to themselves to absorb everything that had just happened.

"So…" Allan began to speak, handing the whiskey off to Will.

"So what?" Djaq prodded when he didn't continue.

"I dunno—I'm just trying to clear up this gap in the conversation."

It was snug here on the front steps, Will decided, with him and his wife sitting on the bottom step and Allan on the second step over their heads with his feet between them. It was getting on late in the evening, the sun beginning to dip lower on the horizon and staining the sky reddish-orange, but the sounds of the distant festivities were still going strong; these parties would be going until well into the next morning and probably most of the following day. But they were entitled to a bit of revelry after everything they had been through.

"Would it kill you to just be _respectfully quiet_ for a while? For _once?"_ She huffed, lifting her head out of her hands to glare at him over her head.

"Yes."

She pounded her fist on his foot and went back to her contemplative pose with her chin in her hands and her elbows resting on her bent knees; Allan howled and lifted the foot up, cradling it in his hands.

Djaq rolled her eyes. "Oh, you big baby."

"Tell me, mate, is she _always_ this abusive, or am I just special?"

"I think she saves it all up for you—you know, just because she _likes_ you."

Pause.

"So, what's next?" Allan asked.

Will shrugged as he took a drink from the now half-empty bottle. The liquid burned as it went down his throat, but he didn't care; he knew that if he wasn't drinking, he'd be a bundle of very tired nerves. "Who's to say? The whole world's a _mess."_

"But the war's over."

"It is only a victory in the sense that the actual fighting is over," she said. "But… well, think of the tremendous loss of life, the bomb damage all over Europe, the time and resources that have gone into killing. What it took to _end _the war once and for all was civilian death on a massive scale. How can that be a victory?"

Leave it to Djaq to bring _that_ to their attention. But, he thought, she was absolutely right. While people all over the world celebrated the end of a terrible war, there were still hundreds of thousands of people dead, and many more were mourning the loss of family or friends who died in the war—died fighting for what they believed in or died unjustly in the prisons and death camps all over Europe and Asia; mourning their friends and family who were just innocent bystanders and civilians who had nothing to do with the war were. Even _more_ young military men and civilians were injured permanently, missing limbs and eyes or worse. The carnage in a war like this was unimaginable; the images of the bombs being dropped on Japan were shocking, the very clouds being rattled from the sky and buildings crumbling like sandcastles being swept away by the tide. He didn't know what to think of that—it ended the war, but at what cost?

And then there was the knowledge that, while the fighting was _officially over,_ there was an incredible amount of work that would have to be undertaken to get the world back to any semblance of normalcy. The cleanup might actually take longer than the war itself did. Bomb damage and the ravages of war tumbled all over the countryside and cities in England, and even worse than that in _all_ of Europe. All that was left of some places was rubble, razed buildings, and once-fertile farmlands burned and blackened by artillery and fire. Whole countries would have to be rebuilt, literally from the ground up. And no amount of mortar and brick could begin to rebuild the lives and families that had been irrevocably shaken and uprooted and destroyed by the years of conflict and war and trauma.

A shiver ran down his spine and he took another drink.

Djaq snatched the bottle from his hand mid-swig, making the whiskey dribble out of his mouth and down his chin and into his lap. "Give me that."

He coughed and sputtered as she took it away from him. "Careful—I could choke!" He wiped the spattered drink off of himself.

Instead of answering him, she wiped the dribble and the spit off of the mouth of the bottle before taking a drink herself.

Allan heaved a sigh as only he could. "That's all well and pessimistic of you, Djaq, but I was talking about what's next for _us,_ personally. Not the world as a whole."

She was staring half-dreamily off into the orange-stained clouds before her; the slowly dimming sunlight cast a glow on her, lighting her face and hair and making her skin look like soft gold. She was sitting so perfectly still that she almost looked like a statue there. "We are a part of the world, aren't we?"

"That isn't what I meant!"

"I think we are all _less_ sure about that," she admitted. "It will be so hard to re-adjust after all of this."

"Oh, yeah—don't we know it, my love," Allan sighed. He called her that sometimes, but Will never minded. That was just the way he was, and he knew that he didn't mean anything by it. "You can't realistically expect everything to go back to the way it was six years ago, can you? For one thing, we'd all have to regress back through puberty again—"

"Among other things," she interrupted.

"Come _on—_d'you remember how much puberty sucked?"

"That is completely removed from the point."

He sighed and grinned in his trademark roguish way. "Here, let me have that." He reached for the bottle; she passed it to him.

Silence. There were just the quiet little background noises, the distant sounds of the celebrations beyond and the chirping of crickets and little peeping frogs.

"Really, though," Will piped up when the quiet became to overwhelming, even for him. "What _is_ next?"

"I really, _really_ do not know," she said sadly. "So much has changed. And I—I am not sure how to live here in peacetime, or to live with _you_ in peacetime. If you remember, I came into your lives not long before the war did."

"Yeah, but we _like_ you," Allan defended her, ruffling her hair from above. "We love you to very small bits. Can't say we felt the same about Hitler."

Will saw her smile softly; he leaned over and kissed her gently and reassuringly on the forehead.

The sky darkened, the orange and red fading into purple and then to dark blue as night fell. Stars glittered overhead and the half-moon, tinted golden-yellow by the hazy skies, cast the faintest glow on the world around them. The celebrations beyond, in the town square and the shopping district, were still going strong, judging by the shouts and laughter carrying through the air and over to them all the way over here, and now that it was dark out they were beginning to shoot off fireworks, illuminating the sky with colourful fizzling explosions and splashes of light.

They fell quiet again in the darkness, watching the fireworks from their perch on the Scarlett's front steps; the air grew cooler, and they began to huddle together for warmth, still passing the whiskey bottle between them and drinking.

He tried his best not to think too much—he found if he did, he could quickly depress himself—and instead just let himself enjoy the quiet solitude, just the three of them together, watching the distant fireworks show. He hadn't realized just how long it had been since he'd felt this kind of peace until now, when it settled on his shoulders like a familiar and comfortable security blanket.

He had no idea how long they'd sat there for. He didn't care.

It was… nice.

Quite suddenly, Djaq leaped to her feet, wobbling on unsteady and slightly drunken legs.

"Whoa—mind yourself!" He warned, reaching out to steady his wife and finding _himself_ feeling more than a little watery.

"Oh, goodness… I think I have lost my knees…" she murmured, leaning on him.

"You okay?" Allan asked.

"Why are we sitting about and being depressed?" She asked rhetorically with a sudden change in attitude. "The war is over. Shouldn't we be _happy? _Be celebrating?"

He raised his eyebrows. "This is so unlike you, Djaq."

"Hey, come on, mate—let her be abnormal." His friend was grinning as he stood and rested his hand on her shoulder. "What'd you have in mind?"

She paused, blinking; Will stood up and carefully held her elbow to keep her from swaying. She probably wasn't all _that _drunk, but it was hard to tell with Djaq.

"We should go to Scarborough," she said finally. "Get Lukey and Annie and celebrate." She brought her arms up and hooked them around their necks, forcing Will to bend at the waist to get down to her level. Allan, too, was bent awkwardly to their much shorter friend. Their heads smacked together over hers with an audible _thunk!_ sound.

"Oof!"

"Ow!"

"That _hurts!"_

"Djaq!"

She swung them around, the three of them bumbling halfway down the front walk in an awkward, drunken human chain. More than once they almost tumbled sideways together into the shrubs or the trees growing at either side of the old stone path, while he and Allan struggled against her the whole way.

"We have had a _whole war_ to be depressed," she declared. "But the war is over now—and I, for one, am _finished_ being depressed!"

"I think that's the whiskey talking," Allan grunted, trying to free himself from the woman's surprisingly solid grip.

"Whiskey doesn't talk. _I'm_ still in full control of _most_ of my faculties."

"You said it yourself, though," Will pointed out. "The future is uncertain, the world is a mess—aren't you frightened?"

She smiled. "Not at all," she said. "I am _finished_ being frightened."

He thought she sounded a little optimistic about this—uncharacteristic for her, certainly, but it wasn't completely unwelcome. They'd spent so long in fear of the war itself, and then in absolute and utter shock at this _end_ to the war, at the foggy futures facing them. Perhaps it _was_ time to break away from that.

"There a reason for this sudden bravery?" Allan choked out.

Her arm tightened around his neck, pulling him closer to her; Will heard his friend choke and knew that she'd done the same to him. She kissed them each on the cheek, first him and then Allan.

"Because," she said. "We are here, we are together, and we are _alive._ That is all we need."

o…o

_Keep the home fires burning,  
While your hearts are yearning.  
Though the lads are far away,  
They dream of home.  
There's a silver lining,  
Through the dark clouds, shining.  
Turn the dark clouds inside-out  
Until the boys come home._

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

It seems something of an anticlimax to end the story this way, and with a short chapter like this one. But this ending is one of the first things I came up with during the blueprint stage of this story, and I couldn't see ending it any other way. After all, you don't _need_ a 'happily ever after' in order to have a happy ending. Just being happy is enough. Djaq is right—that really _is_ all you need.

Thank you, thank you to _everybody_ who's been reading this story, both those who have been reading it from the beginning and those who came into it later on; those who reviewed and offered feedback, and those who enjoyed the story. Thanks so much for all of your support and kind words, for putting up with my long and rambling chapters, for staying with the story through all of these months, and for your patience when the story went slowly. Especially thanks to those of you who gave this future!AU story a chance when normally you shy away from them—it _really_ makes me happy to know that I've impressed some of the critics.

Writing this story was so much fun, and I'm so sad to see it end, but to keep it going any longer would just be beating the proverbial dead horse. While I think it's fun to explore the possible reactions to the characters in new settings and time periods—the challenge in this is the appeal of AUs for me—I think it's time to get back to the canon time period. Maybe someday I'll write another Robin Hood AU, in another time and place with a whole new set of problems to explore—and if I do, I hope you'll all read it and enjoy it like you've read this one. In the meantime, I think I'll bring my Writing Clock back to 12th-century England for a while.

Thank you, all of you. I mean it. I hope to see you again someday in another story.


	21. Epilogue: October, 1956

This epilogue has been floating around in my head for months now, and I was debating whether or not to a) write it, and b) post it. After all, the story really _does_ end in the last chapter, but part of me wanted to take this peek into the lives of our favourite characters, to see how they've adjusted to a life without war. Then I decided, why not? I'm sure it'll be as amusing for you to read about their lives as it was for me to write it.

Disclaimer: Robin Hood is, sadly, still not my property. I think it's time to just accept this. So much for bribery, begging, and threats.

0…0…0…0…0

o…o

**October, 1956**

Will left Djaq to pay the cabbie and dashed up the walkway through the rain and sleet, taking refuge underneath the tiny overhang above the front door and flattened himself against it in an effort to get as much of himself out of the wet as possible. Djaq fumbled with the money and called back, "Keep the change!" before hefting her bag and running up the walk after him. She slid dangerously on the wet stone and he lunged down to grab her, keeping her from falling.

"Are you okay?" He asked her, his hands on her shoulders.

"I am fine," she assured. Then she slapped him on the chest. "You might have taken my bag for me, or offered to pay the man instead of charging up the walk like that!"

"All's fair in love and war," he drawled, kissing her on the cheek.

"And which is this?"

"It could be either, or both."

She giggled softly.

The weather was horribly bleak. The sleet and rain that fell were that icy, sharp cold that bit into his hands and face, the exposed skin; wind rushed, too, bending the bare gray-brown trees at an angle and blowing the wetness right into their faces. The sky above was gray and solid, with some lighter gray clouds lower down were floating along slowly. The last few leaves clung to the trees in the wind, hanging curled and crumpled off of the otherwise naked limbs.

"I _told_ you we should've brought a brolly," she groused.

"How were we supposed to know it was going to rain? It was perfectly nice when we left Nottingham this morning!"

"Oh my goodness," she gasped, laying her hand on her cheek and adopting a mock-surprised expression. _"Rain_ in _North Yorkshire?_ How were we _ever_ supposed to anticipate that?"

He growled and grasped her around the shoulders from behind, roughly tousling her short hair. She never let her hair grow longer than the bottom of her neck before cutting it shorter again—he used to think that this was simply a throwback from her long-ago masquerade, but nowadays he couldn't imagine Djaq any other way. The thought of her with long hair just didn't seem right.

She squirmed and tried to wiggle out of his grip.

"You cheeky thing, you," he rumbled in her ear. "Somebody should _spank_ you."

"Did you have anybody specific in mind?" She asked innocently.

"Cheeky," he said again. He released her and smacked her behind.

He found himself silently and reverently grateful to whoever was in charge of making tight jeans fashionable for women—she wore them _very_ well, he noted, with the clothing hugging her around her backside and legs. Of course, he'd only be able to _see_ her backside if she wasn't wearing that great big, thick gray Duffle coat. She loved that thing—he gave it to her for Christmas last year—and wore it all the time. Through the little open part of her coat, he could see her black-and-white striped shirt; and she also wore, as always, her bright red Converse All-Stars.

She'd always looked quite a bit younger than she was, and her current choice of clothing tended to make that worse, so much so that it wasn't uncommon for fairly young teenaged boys, upon failing to notice her wedding band, to shamelessly flirt with her or make eyes at her across train the aisles or on the bus. He'd long grown used to this and it didn't bother him—after more than ten years of marriage, insecurities of that nature were a thing of the past—and mostly thought it was funny, particularly when the boys found out that Djaq was both _married_ and twice their age.

He'd changed with the years, as well; he kept his hair a little longer than he used to, a style that the times now permitted. She said that rather liked him with the longer hair. And in the snug jeans he wore more often these days. And in his plain black coat and black-and-white trainers. Actually, she said she liked him in anything. He also knew that he, too, looked quite a bit younger than his thirty-three years; not nearly as much as she did, but enough that he was still asked for identification when he tried to buy alcohol.

While she and Will were being downright silly on the front step, the door opened. He couldn't see right away who had answered it, until he looked down and saw a head full of dark sandy-brown hair and big blue eyes.

"Were you smackin' her?" The little boy asked as he looked carefully back and forth between his aunt and uncle.

"Only a little bit," Djaq laughed.

"Daniel, don't you know you're not supposed to answer the door without asking who's there first?"

"Oh."

The door slammed; they both leaped back in surprise.

"Who is it?" Came the muffled question from the four-year-old on the other side of the door.

Both of them, still standing and being steadily drenched by the cold rain, were completely doubled over with laughter. They could only have expected _that_ level of cheek from Luke Scarlett's son.

They heard another voice on the other side of the door, this one a grown woman's. "Why are you yelling at the door, Danny?"

"There's people on the other side, laughin'."

"People—what? Who? Did you open the door for total _strangers?"_

"No."

"Do I have to tickle it out of you, or are you going to tell me who it is?"

"Uncle Will and Aunt Djaq."

"You mean you just—oh for goodness sake!"

The door opened quickly, and on the other side was Auntie Annie. Her bright ginger-red hair had greyed over the years, and she fought aging the whole way by dying her hair with Indian henna, producing an amusingly uneven hair colour. Her mouth and the corners of her eyes were creased from years of laughter. But her kind brown eyes still sparkled with the cheer and mischievousness of youth, and she was still so very young at heart.

"I swear, that child doesn't do _anything_ halfway!" She shook her vibrantly red head as she ushered the two of them into the house. "Come in out of the rain, quickly!"

Annie's house was warm and cozy, and it hadn't changed since approximately the 1920s. There was the same olive-green carpet with the raised pattern worn away in some places from decades of foot traffic in the house; the old brown sofa in the sitting room had gone through new slip-covers faster than he went through socks. The wallpaper had faded and the house smelled comfortingly, familiarly old and well-loved.

Will bent down and kissed his aunt on the cheek. "Hello, Auntie."

"It's nice to see you, dear. I'm sorry I didn't come to the door so quickly," she apologized as she took their wet, cold coats and their overnight bags from them. "It's all a bit hectic around here!"

"I imagine," Djaq said, hugging the older woman. "With the new baby and trying to get the whole brood here from Newcastle, and having all of these people staying in your house, I am surprised you are not already hitting the bottle." With her hands now free, she bent to ruffle her nephew's hair. "Hello, love."

"I'm not the _baby,_ Aunt Djaq!" He protested, with all the dignity inherent in a four-year-old. "The baby's—"

"Ah-ah!" Annie grinned and placed a finger to her lips, signalling the boy to be quiet.

"What was that all about?" Will asked as the boy wandered out of the front hall. "Surely there can't be any real _secret_ about this, can there? I mean, we _did_ know that Emily was expecting…"

If there was one relationship that nobody expected to work, it was the one between little Luke Scarlett and bouncy, perky Emily Bennett.

They met seven years ago, when they were both at university—Emily was bubbly and outgoing and energetic, in contrast to Luke who had always been shy and a little reserved, much like his big brother was. They began seeing one another casually, just as teenagers normally would, and it never seemed particularly serious. The first time he brought the young blue-eyed, freckled, and cheerfully chatty young woman to Auntie Annie's house, in all of her bobby-socks-and-penny-loafers finery, honey-coloured curls bouncing all around her face, they had all been quite thoroughly amused by her presence. She was refreshingly different and a great deal of fun, but nobody really expected that she might stay interested in him—certainly _Will_ didn't expect a great deal to come from this little young-love courtship between her and his younger brother.

But she had, and three years later, after they had both graduated and Luke was a professional portrait artist and Emily was teaching English at a secondary school, they married. They lived further north from Annie, and considerably far away from Nottingham—Scarborough was used as a central meeting place whenever the family wanted to get together.

Daniel was their first, named for his grandfather. He took after his mother more than anybody, but he had his father's wicked _cheek._ And some weeks ago, Emily had their second child, a girl. Djaq and Will had yet to meet the new baby, so they'd all arranged the visit. They were all crowding into Auntie Annie's place, making the old house look quite a bit smaller with all of those people crammed inside.

"Hey, Will!"

They both turned to the doorway between the sitting room and the front hall and saw Luke standing there with a burping cloth still slung over his arm and his son perched up on his shoulders.

"Oh, god," he buried his face in his hands. "My little brother has a moustache."

Luke was grinning around the little dark moustache on his upper lip. He looked much closer to Will's age than he really was, but the two of them still looked frighteningly similar.

"Will, I'm twenty-seven years old, I think it's acceptable for me to have facial hair."

"I don't care how old you are—you're still my little brother."

It was still a little unusual, he thought, to think of his little brother as all grown up, married, and with children of his own. He imagined he'd always, _always_ think of his little brother as just that—little, and young.

Smiling, they embraced awkwardly around the four-year-old on the younger man's back; he kissed the dark-haired woman, as well, careful to bend to her level without tipping Danny onto the floor. The little boy began to struggle, and he lifted him down and let him run off into some other quarter of the house to do goodness knew what.

"You'd _better_ not be getting into anything!" Auntie Annie called after the boy. She stood in place for only a few seconds before deciding that it wasn't worth letting her great-nephew go through the house unattended, and went after him.

"He _is_ right, you know," she said. "It seems a little odd."

Luke sighed. "What, is this another one of those 'you have no business being taller than I am' situations?" He teased her, referencing one of Djaq's long-ago observations about the younger Scarlett boy growing older—and bigger. He'd topped out at nearly six foot, towering over his sister-in-law.

"Of course," she replied, grinning. "How are you?"

"A little overwhelmed," he sighed. "I forget how much trouble it is having a baby in the house."

"I remember when Danny was little—I don't think either of you slept _at all_ for that first year," Will recalled.

They continued talking as they left the front hall in favour of heading into the living room.

"Stop reminding me."

"How's Em doing?"

"Pretty well, but she's tired."

"Understandable. Where is she?"

"In the kitchen, heating up the formula."

"Hey, mate."

Will looked up to see a familiar face.

"_Allan?"_ Djaq asked, sounding as surprised as he felt. "What are you _doing_ here?"

"You could _pretend_ to be a little more excited to see me," he said, feigning mock-hurt. He stood up from the sofa, cradling a pink blanket in his left arm; the other hand was occupied with a baby bottle, feeding the little baby sleeping there.

"We thought you were still in the states on business," Will said.

"Why did nobody tell us you would be here?" She asked as she hugged him cautiously around the shoulders, careful not to crush the baby.

He shrugged. "Surprise," he said with a lopsided grin.

She smiled, too.

"When'd you get back?" Will asked as he gently clapped his old friend on the back.

"Yesterday—my plane came in really early in the morning and Annie is let me crash here rather than finding a hotel room. I'm just staying until tomorrow, and then I'm going back to London."

Of most of their old friends and family, he and Djaq were the only ones who had stayed in Nottingham. Journalism proved to be Allan's calling, and he advanced quickly through the various departments before being offered a position as a columnist with _The Times,_ when he relocated to London. His work took him all over the world and they didn't see him nearly as often as they used to. But he still came to Nottingham to see them whenever he could. And still walked into the house without knocking.

In truth, Will thought that he and his wife might have left Nottingham, as well, if a situation had presented itself. Certainly a change would have been nice, but they were happy and comfortable with their lives in their old home. And when the opportunity arose for Will to open his own shop in the village, he snapped it up immediately, and leaving seemed a rather silly idea. He opened his own shop selling his furniture and, perhaps the best part, his own little wooden toys, putting to good use the more frivolous side of his woodworking talents. When they opened the business, Djaq left her position at the department store and kept track of his books for him. He liked to think that his father was watching them and approved of his business venture—even though Dan Scarlett hadn't always been supportive of his toy-making passion, he'd always admitted that he had a gift for it. It was just that he never thought that there would be a way for him to make a good living with it, at least not with toy-making alone. Now that he _had_ found a way to do just that, Will liked to imagine that his father approved of it.

Everybody else had moved on from Nottingham; even Marian and Robin had left, for a few years anyway.

When the war ended, they sold Robin's family home and spent years travelling throughout Europe and the United States and Canada together to get the collective itch out of their feet before they came back, quite suddenly, four years later. The reason for this sudden return and their purchasing of Marian's family home was somewhat mysterious until it was revealed that the woman was pregnant, and they had decided that travelling with an infant would be too hard.

"I know you don't like babies, Djaq, but would you like to have a look?" Allan teased gently, lowering the infant in his arms.

Will wasn't sure what she was going to say, if anything at all, but she smiled a little crookedly and peered over the baby.

"Sure," she said. "Why not?"

He stood behind her as she looked at their niece, small and pinkish in colour, with big blue eyes and a dusting of curly black hair on her head. She was kind of cute, he decided. He didn't like babies, much, either, and preferred it when the children were older, but he could admit that the newborn was a cute thing.

"She's so _tiny,"_ he remarked.

"Well, she _is_ just a little baby," Djaq said.

"No, I mean—she's smaller than most babies I've seen. A lot smaller than Daniel was." He leaned down so his face was right over Djaq's, carefully watching for the baby to do something but she never did. "Little Madeline," he said, recalling the name that both Luke and Emily had been so adamant about calling their daughter if they had a girl this time.

"Not Madeline," Luke said as he came into the room and carefully took the baby from his friend.

"You have not called her Madeline?" She asked, turning to him and frowning.

"I thought you loved that name!" Will said. "Why'd you change your mind?"

"We didn't," came Emily's voice as she walked out of the kitchen. "We just couldn't use the same name twice."

The meaning of Emily's words became clear the second he turned around and saw her there holding _another _bundled baby blanket in her arms, this one yellow, feeding a second tiny little newborn baby.

"We've called this one Madeline," she said, beaming. "Allan has Evelyn."

"_Twins!"_ Will's face went from surprise to a grin all at once. "Well, how about that. Congratulations!"

Pause.

"You _are_ happy, right?"

"Of course!" She laughed.

"All right, children!" Auntie Annie came from the kitchen in her faded striped pink apron, with Danny on her hip. "Lunch is all ready in the dining room—we'd better eat now before it gets cold."

She ushered the whole group, all five adults and herself and Daniel, into the dining room and arranged them at the table around the big hot lunch set up at the table. Even after the war ended, food rationing continued for many years. It was only recently that the last of the restrictions were lifted at last. They'd all been so used to living thriftily, and the sudden abundant availability of food was something almost _novel._

Annie had always been good at providing food for all of them, whenever they were at her house, which they usually were around Christmas and Easter and any big holiday.

The whole house was full of warmth and laughter as they sat down to eat. This was their family—it was perhaps a little different than most, but still good.

The best.

o…o

Lunch lasted well into the evening hours as they all caught up with one another. The large family gatherings like this occurred seldom, with everybody living so far apart from each other, and they weren't going to waste it. Especially with Allan travelling so much for work, having all of them here together was wonderful.

While the adults had some drinks after lunch, their old friend took out a thick folder full of photographs from some of his previous trips to work—his trip to France in April, his two weeks in Japan last December, the time he'd recently spent in the United States from which he'd just returned. He was one of those people whom activity just seemed to _follow._ Wherever he went, things just _happened_ to him. He was never bored, that was for sure.

Will shared with the present company what he considered to be the most amusing story of the evening: always a lover of suspense and mystery, Djaq had dragged him to the cinema to see a double-feature of Hitchcock films, _The Rear Window _and _Dial 'M' For Murder._ After this, he said, laughing as he recalled the events, she slept with the lights on for four days and kept a cricket bat close at hand in the bedroom.

Just in case.

Other stories about friends and family were regaled all afternoon and all evening. Some of them were new and were told as a way of catching up; others were old classics, like about the first time Luke got drunk at Robin and Marian's wedding.

Djaq enjoyed some time with her nephew as they gathered in the living room around the radio; she was starting to like him more and more as he got older and became a little bit more interesting. She didn't want one of her _own,_ but she decided that he was fun to be around these days. She played with him for a while, helping him set up an enormous sprawling Brio train track through Auntie Annie's sitting room. Sometimes the family jokingly asked her if the only reason she played with her nephew at all was for an excuse to play with his toys.

Maybe only a little. She'd just never had toys this fun when she was younger.

It was fairly late by the time they all decided that it was time to turn in for bed. Outside it was still sleeting, with the steady _tup-tup-tup_ of frozen rain on the windows somewhat a comforting sound. Even with the radiators on, it was cold in the house without central heating. Scarborough was always a lot colder than Nottingham, especially in fall like this; nobody knew _why_ Annie hadn't had central heating installed. She had the money, certainly, but for whatever reason she refused to invest in something that could make her house _liveable_ for the six coldest months of the year. To compensate for the cold house, extra blankets were pulled out of linen closets and out of storage spaces underneath beds and put on all of the beds to keep them warm—it was going to be a little cozy in here tonight.

There was also a distinct lack of beds in Auntie Annie's place. There were only three bedrooms between all six people and the three children. Annie let Emily and Luke _and_ the bassinets for the two babies have her room while she bunked down in the smaller of the two spare rooms with Daniel; Will and Djaq took the other spare room with the _incredibly small_ double bed, leaving Allan to make up a bed on the sofa downstairs.

"This place always seemed a whole lot bigger when I was little," Will remarked absently to Djaq as she sat at the edge of the bed.

"And there were fewer people in it," she added. Then she pushed his shoulder. "Nudge—there is no room for me in there."

He moved a tiny little bit.

"Move than that!"

"If I nudge any further, I'll fall out the other side."

She sighed and tried to settle down in bed next to him, but the bed was _small._ So she smacked his backside to get him to move.

"Stop hitting me," he grumbled.

"Stop whinging."

She snuggled up behind him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and his head resting back against her breast, warm and snug under the heavy wool blankets. Just to be obnoxious, she manipulated his pajama top with her feet.

"Don't _touch me_ with your cold feet!" He yelped at the contact, jumping right out of the other side of the bed.

She laughed quietly as he settled back into bed, moving to put her feet on his back again.

"_Stop that!"_ He said sharply. "Go put some socks on or something!"

"Goodness," she groused as she slid out of bed to find her woolly socks. "Whatever happened to 'love, honour, and cherish'?"

"You know I love you to bits, but I remember absolutely nothing in my wedding vows about 'I will let my wife put her cold feet on my butt every night from October to April'!"

"Really? It was in the fine print."

"Shut up and get back into bed."

She got back into bed and cuddled up at his back again, her arm around his shoulders and her chin resting atop his head. He turned his head towards her, his nose pressed gently against the base of her throat; his arms were around her, over and under her body to hold her. He was warm—Will was _always_ warm in the cold weather. She loved curling up with him on cold nights, close and cozy and wonderful.

Even though they were in their thirties, and had been married for years and living together for many more than that, she still found that there was a sort of thrilling freshness about their relationship—as friends, as spouses, as lovers, as companions. Sometimes it was like they were teenagers. He certainly made her feel like a giddy adolescent girl sometimes—a girl with her first boyfriend. Of course, he really _was_ her first boyfriend.

For the most part, they'd settled from the flame of newlyweds to the comfortable familiarity of an established couple before they'd even married; and after they married, it continued that way. Nothing had really changed. Not that familiarity was a _bad_ thing; it meant that they knew each other, body and soul. They could communicate with one another without words, an almost telepathic connection between them. And although she had never had another lover before, she didn't think it would be possible for somebody to know her very body more intimately than Will did.

But every so often, she would find herself looking at him—never during a particularly poignant or romantic time; usually while they were just going about their daily business together, while he was working in his woodshop, or while they were eating dinner or sitting down on the sofa together and working on the crossword puzzles—and her heart would go all fluttery and she would get the feeling she used to get when she was young, when her attraction to her shy friend first blossomed. The feeling of being sweetly, giddily in love was never far from her.

Their breathing was synchronized, deep, long, even breaths in time with one another. They were dozing for a long time, hovering between sleep and wakefulness in the cold room under the heavy warm blankets.

She heard him murmur something beneath her, rousing her from her half-sleep. "Hm?" She hummed gently.

"I was thinking," he whispered, pushing himself up on his elbow to look into her face.

"What of?"

He fidgeted. "Well…" he began slowly.

"Will, what is it?" She asked gently.

"The thing is… when we found out that Emily was going to have another baby, I started thinking that they might, you know… need more room, for the kids and all."

Nod. "Understandable. Living in that little townhouse cannot be easy on them."

"And, well, now that they've got Danny _and_ the twins, they can't possibly stay in that house for too much longer. It'll just get too crowded."

"Mm-hm."

"I was thinking… what would you feel about giving the house to Luke and Emily?"

She sat upright. "What?"

He began to explain himself very quickly, jumbling over his words as he tried to get them all out more or less all at once. "I just meant that, well, it's only the two of us in that house together, and we don't need the room—and having two new babies, they're going to need more rooms soon and—"

She put a finger to his lips to silence him. "You do not need to convince me," she said. "I think it is a good idea."

Pause.

"Really?"

"Yes."

"You don't think it's… I dunno, I sort of thought you might have some objections."

She shrugged. "I'm sure picking up and starting over and finding a new place to live could be a bit difficult to do. We've lived in the same place for how long, now—about a hundred years?"

He snickered.

"But you are right—they need the house. We have the resources to start over, but they don't. Not really." She reached out and stroked his hair gently with the back of her hand. "Will, I _like_ the idea! If we have to go someplace else—leave Nottingham… well, that wouldn't be too bad, would it? A change could be fun."

He was smiling now. "What about the shop?"

"There is no rule that says we cannot open another toy shop wherever it is we go. Furniture and toys and cabinetmakers are in demand everywhere—and I think you shall _always_ need me to do your accounts."

He chuckled; she leaned over and kissed his forehead.

"I think it is a good idea," she repeated. "But it's late, and I am tired. We will talk about it in the morning."

"Mm," he murmured. "Good idea."

He turned over again, this time facing her, and buried his face against her shoulder. Body was tightly knit with body, their arms and legs entangled, perfectly fitted to one another. She hiked the blankets up around them as the warmth settled back over them and they slowly began to drift off to sleep again.

The last thing she was even vaguely aware of was the sound of his voice.

"Djaq?"

He took her sigh to mean that she was listening.

"I love you."

o…o

0…0…0…0…0

It's too bad there isn't some kind of a medal given for the sappiest endings, because I think I'd win that hands down.

I don't think I can thank you enough for reading this story for such a long tome—for offering your support in reviews or messages, or by favouring the story or recommending it to other people. As long as you're enjoying the story, I'm a happy writer. I know I sound really schmaltzy here at the moment, but it's true. A special thanks go out to MissWed, who was very good for bouncing ideas off of, and to MaddieStJ, who thought that Will should open up a toy shop. And to those of you who are _still_ reading the story after all this time. And those of you who hate AUs, but saw this monster story on the top of the page once a week and decided to give it a go.

Actually, thanks to all of you. Really.


End file.
